


And in the Darkness Bind Them

by Cinderstrato



Series: Into the West [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Except not really because basically everyone's dead already but it doesn't count, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Drama, Friendship, Gen, Gratuitous use of Tolkien mythology, Illustrated, M/M, Various dead relatives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 68,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3543803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderstrato/pseuds/Cinderstrato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Settling in for a quiet -- if not peaceful -- life in the Undying Lands, Frodo soon realizes that his adventuring days aren’t quite done after all. In an effort to seek out Ilúvatar himself to beg for a cure for the dark affliction endangering his uncle, Frodo travels far beyond the reaches of Valinor and finds that he isn’t the only one on a reckless journey to save Bilbo’s life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my attempt at the obligatory afterlife fix-it fic. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and, as always, the characters and lands of Middle-earth belong to Professor Tolkien.

**  
**

**PROLOGUE:** _For the Burdens We Bear_ **  
**

THORIN

* * *

 

THE DOORS TO MAHAL’S KEEP were forged of iron and the brightest burnished copper, inlaid with runes of pure mithril. They stood tall, towering to the high ceiling, and bore no locks or bars, for they were said to open for no one but their creator.

The crown of Thorin’s head barely brushed the knocker, wrought in the shape of a massive boar’s head and set with jewels; two diamonds eyes the size of hen’s eggs glittered sullenly at him. Despite his haste in coming to the Keep, Thorin tarried in the silent hall, gathering his courage until he was at last able to grasp the knocker firmly and let it fall.

Scarcely had it struck before the doors creaked and swung wide, spilling orange torchlight and a low, rumbling voice. “Come, Thorin, son of Thráin."

It was not a voice to be disobeyed, and so Thorin came. The doors swept shut behind him.

This was no throne room, as he had half-supposed it would be. Before him was a vast forge, cluttered with anvils, bellows, piles of raw precious metals, and a dozen blazing fire-pits. Ash and oil stained the marble floors. The hot air was flavoured with smoke and iron and sweat, the comforting scent of the smithy. On every surface swords and axes and goblets and bracelets glimmered with precious stones, and Thorin knew not where to look.  

At the largest furnace was the Maker, Crafter of the Dwarrows and Master of Fire and Forge, Lord of Metal and Stone. He was a striking figure, of a height with Thorin and yet seeming to tower far above him, his shoulders as wide as a tree trunk. A ruby-red beard lay in a complex pattern of plaits on his chest -- bare, as he wore only the vestments of a simple blacksmith -- and gems set in gold sparkled on every thick finger.

Thorin began to lower himself to his knees.

“None of that," said Lord Mahal, and Thorin hastily rose. “I have spoken to you in the Feasting Hall, son of Thráin, but only now have you sought my forge. What brings you?”

“A request, my lord.”

Mahal swung his hammer, casting a magnificent shower of white-gold sparks into the air. “Then speak.”

“I beg a boon of you,” Thorin said, "and your wife, the Lady Yavanna. It is said that she keeps watch over all green things and the creatures that tend them. I would ask your permission to learn the fate of one of those creatures. It would settle my mind to know what has happened to him.”

At first Mahal made no reply, dropping his hammer to the anvil to comb one hand thoughtfully through his beard. “This is all you would ask of her?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then I shall bring her your request,” Mahal declared, “if only to stop your brooding. I have never known a dwarf so determined to make his afterlife miserable.”

Over a half-century dwelling in these halls had not been enough to accustom Thorin to their keeper. In his past life he had, like all his kin, upheld the Maker as a mysterious, austere figure of wisdom, power, and majesty, nearly incomprehensible to the mortal dwarf mind. Therefore it had been a trifle painful to discover that the Most Blessed Father  reminded Thorin of no one so much as his Cousin Dáin.

“I make you no promises, for my lady wife knows her own mind.” Mahal hefted his hammer once more. “Begone now, son of Thráin! I have work to do.”

 

* * *

 

Nothing more of his request was said for a while, though Thorin did not know how long. Time was measured differently in the Maker's Halls, with no markers of the passage of the hours. It could have been days. It could have been years. Eventually, the Green Lady came to Durin’s Keep.

Thorin spent his mornings in solitude in his forge, and the day the Green Lady appeared was no different. He had been labouring for many hours on a circlet of mithril and pearl. While he had always preferred weapon-forging, for he was no jeweller, the urge to craft something peculiar had niggled at him relentlessly. So immersed was he in curling broad leaves into the band that it took him a moment to realize he was not alone -- still he did not look up from his work until his father called him.

Thráin was in the threshold, and he looked shaken. There stood at his side Lady Yavanna, wife of Mahal and keeper of all things good and green. Her eyes were pools of cool, mossy water, vines of coiled hair swayed around her face, and her skin was the colour of black, loamy earth. She was spring and growth and deep, ancient roots, and the sight of her struck Thorin dumb.

“I would speak with you, Thorin Oakenshield,” she said, with a voice like lilting, sighing wind. Thráin made a neat bow and left as swiftly as he could, giving his son one last glance of alarm before he retreated. Lady Yavanna drifted toward the anvil where the circlet lay. “Oak leaves and lily-of-the-valley. An unusual choice.” She fixed her gaze upon Thorin. “My lord husband says that you have a favour to ask of me.”

Thorin remembered himself then and knelt. “My lady, I have heard that you are the protector of hobbits.”

Her manner softened, and the warmth lit her countenance like sunlight on water. “They are kind to the earth. They do not treat it carelessly nor spill blood for want of it, and so it is kind to them. Yet few of your folk speak of hobbits with such high regard.”

“If it is your will, I would learn the fate of one of them.” The Lady's look was knowing, but she waited for him to speak. “There is a hobbit of the Shire of whom I was once fond. Bilbo Baggins is his name.”

“There is no Bilbo Baggins among those who sleep, but I know of whom you speak. The Ringbearer who cast away the Ring is dwelling now with the elves in Valinor, until he should be called away home.”

“My thanks,” Thorin managed to say. 

Yavanna reached out to tip up his chin, and her eyes were piercing and terrible -- he could not have looked away even had he wished it. “Ah,” she murmured, and looked sorrowful. “Your grief has hardened your heart, son of Thráin, and nothing grows there. I will ask Sister Nienna to weep for you.” She inclined her head, and Thorin, shaken, could not compose himself to bid her farewell before she left his forge on silent feet.

No sooner had she gone before a handful of dwarrows took her place: Thorin’s harried father, and Frerin too, his dark hair a tangle about his head and his elaborate beard half unravelled. It appeared as though he had run from the farthest reaches of the Keep, and Dís, if her look of impatience and Frerin’s hold on her wrist were any indication, had been dragged along unwillingly with him.

Thráin seemed bewildered and nervous. The Green Lady seldom showed herself in the Halls, and no doubt to his father’s mind the visit spoke of some ill portent. “Whatever did she want with you?”

Thorin could not stand to look at him, at any of them. He only wanted, with sudden violent desperation, to be left alone. “Do not concern yourself. It is nothing important.”

“The Green Lady does not pay visits for the pleasure of it,” his sister said, with palpable suspicion. “She wouldn't have come for nothing. What did she say to you?”

“It's no business of yours."

His father's evident distress did not diminish. "There is no danger, Thorin? Nothing about the keep, or about the family . . . . ?"

"It had nothing to do with the family, Adad. It was only. . . . it was an idle curiosity on my part." He managed a thin smile to soothe Thráin's troubled brow, glancing over to his siblings. "All is well. You must trust me."

Dís's laugh was sharp enough to cut. "You know I don't, _abnâthukraf_."

“Dís!” Their father's exclamation was stern, as though the name had been a slap. It would not have been the first time. When Dís had arrived in the Halls after a lingering illness, she had reached for Víli and her sons, kissed her mother and father and Frerin, and struck Thorin soundly across the face. Things had not much improved since then.

"Easy, easy," Frerin murmured, his hands outstretched as though he meant to keep the two of them apart. "If you're going to have a go at each other, do it somewhere else. I have my glass-work in here."

At any other moment, Thráin’s look of exasperation might have been amusing. Dís snorted, gave Thorin a flat stare, and turned heel, disappearing down the long corridor to their grandmother’s chambers. She left silence in her wake.

“She will soften,” his father said at length, sounding as tired as Thorin felt. “Have patience.” It was meant to be reassuring, but this time Thorin had no smile to spare. Thráin was mild, conciliatory, and even-tempered -- his temperament had made him a kindly father but a rather cautious king -- and Thorin could not share in his optimism.

“What an orc," Frerin said laughingly. “And such a fuss over nothing! The lads had a grand adventure before they went. I'll wager they'd say so themselves.”

Thorin turned on him, speechless with anger. “Do not speak of what you cannot even _begin_ to comprehend,” he snarled.

He left his forge without another word, all thoughts of the morning's work subsumed in melancholy. Dís's cold voice rang in his ears. What a pair they made, he and Dís, both of them carved from blunt strokes of the chisel, scarred and pitted by years of bitter hardship. Frerin -- golden, charming, careless Frerin -- seemed a relic of a childhood dream. For all the years they had shared in the Halls, Thorin despaired of them ever understanding each other. A chasm loomed between Thráin's children now.

He wandered aimlessly until his fury burned itself out, and thought to return to the forge to smother his disquiet in the flames. Yet he found himself climbing to the upper levels of the Keep, seeking his mother’s chambers.

Durin’s Keep was a honeycomb of vast halls, interconnected tunnels that seemed to have no end. Branches of families tended to choose quarters together. Thorin stayed in chambers connected to Frerin’s, across from their parents and grandparents, and next to Víli and Dís on one side and Fíli and Kíli on the other. Despite living close, they did not always see each other apart from meals, for they went about their business as they chose, working in the guilds or visiting other Keeps or dining in the communal Feasting Hall, where all the Keeps could gather together. Freís, wife of Thráin, could most often be found in the workshop attached to her rooms.

Thorin knocked at his mother’s door and entered when her low voice bid him. She sat at her work-bench, a jeweller’s glass perched over one eye, meticulously setting a row of pink teardrop sapphires into a ring. Her hands were as steady as they had been in her youth. Freís had been a jeweller of no little renown in Erebor. Several of her creations had been added to the royal treasury, and here she continued her craft devotedly, her pieces valued as highly as they had been in her past life -- Lord Mahal himself had complimented a diamond coronet of her design.

Freís cast a look over him, and Thorin tried not to wilt beneath her flinty gaze, amplified as it was by the looking-glass. Even as a stripling lad he had not been able to conceal things from his mother. “You look as though you’ve been scolded by your sister again,” she remarked as he settled next to her on the padded bench. When he said nothing, she smiled. “Dís and her tongue of dragonfire. Ach, but she always did have my temper.” Her strong brown hand, limned with rings of moonstone, settled on his head to smooth through the tangled waves. “She will forgive you, but you must be patient with her. It is not easy to be the one who is left behind to mourn.”

Thorin could not blame Dís. Sometimes he still looked at his mother and saw her as he had last seen her in another life: her elaborate braids and beard singed to ash, her flesh charred and dark eyes wide and unseeing. He sat across from his grandfather at the dining table and watched his severed head roll through the dust in his mind’s eye. Fíli leapt down a staircase, and Thorin saw him drop from Azog’s hand to lie broken on the rocks.

No, the breadth of Dís’s rage was not unreasonable. Fíli and Kíli’s inclusion on the quest for Erebor had been a point of friction between them; upon leaving Ered Luin, he had sworn on his honour to bring her sons safely home to her if she would entrust him with their care. If his sister now wished to punish him, he would bear it for eternity with no complaint, though it was painful to have her look on him with such hatred. To expect a dwarf to forget fallen kin was unconscionable, for their folk had long memories and remembered slights forever. He was an oath-breaker. That she acknowledged him at all was no small mercy.

His mother’s smile was rueful as she closed delicate prongs around another gem. “It seems to be the lot of this house, to make foolish choices and pay dearly for them.”

He huffed.

“We always settle our debts in the end,” she said, ignoring him. “Your grandfather lost his kingdom. Your father lost his senses. I lost my children.”

“You did nothing wrong, Amad.”

Freís laughed softly. “Always my staunchest defender, my little jewel.” Thorin felt himself colour, and was glad that Frerin was not there to tease him. “I claim my own share of the blame. I saw Thrór sicken and become corrupted, and I stayed silent. I did not counsel your father to take action. Instead I saw the gold and found it beautiful; I let my love of my craft overwhelm my duty. We all of us bear our portion of the guilt.”

“I forfeited the honour of our house,” he said dully. 

His mother set her tools aside and turned on the bench to face him. “Stubborn lad. Yes, you did.” She gripped his chin and tugged him down til their eyes met. “And you reclaimed Erebor. You slayed the beast that killed your grandfather and drove your father to madness. You gave your life in the name of our home.

“Dwarrows are of stone, and like the stone, we are solid and steadfast. But even the strongest stone can be worn away by water and wind.” She touched her forehead to his own. “Do you still not believe us, Thorin, when we say you are forgiven?” He could not answer, and he knew that would be answer enough. His mother sighed and pressed her lips to his brow. “You have time. We have little else here.”

 

* * *

 

_* Abnâthukraf: "oath-breaker"_

* * *

* * *

* * *

 

 

FRODO

* * *

 

IF FRODO HAD HOPED that the Undying Lands would provide him with the peace that the Shire could not, that hope was soon extinguished.

The lands outside Valmar were beautiful beyond description. Frodo spent many hours wandering the southern shore, sweet songs in the air and the white sands soft as flour between his toes. Everywhere there was laughter and plenty, tables laden with fruit and flowers of every colour always in bloom. At nightfall, the stars turned the sand to silver-dust, and heavy perfumes in the air lulled them to sleep. He and Bilbo were given a cottage between a white-birch copse and the shore. It had a little wooden gate and a modest vegetable garden, and they tended the sprouts and roamed the woods and filled their home with sweet-smelling plants that never seemed to wither.

There was quiet and calm in the city on the sea of blue glass, but there was no peace for Frodo.

His thoughts turned again and again to the friends he had left behind: loyal Aragorn and gentle Arwen, unlucky Faramir and quick-footed Legolas and dear, laughing Gimli. He would not see them again, though he could remember them with all the love in his heart. He found himself wishing to view the splendour of Gondor once more, to see how the Greenwood looked in late summer. He wondered if there would soon be a young prince in the White Citadel, if the dwarves were resettling Moria, if Eowyn had accepted Faramir’s hand. Upon Sam and Merry and Pippin he dwelled constantly. Frodo could not regret leaving and felt he had made the right choice, but he worried for them. He worried that the Shire was no longer safe, or that they would come to resent him for sailing West without them. Bilbo assured him that it was not so, but there was a sickening doubt in Frodo’s heart that no amount of promises could banish.

Still, he did his best to mask his sorrow, and if his days were not joyful, they were not unhappy either. There were feasts most every night, and he ate and drank and sang with the elves, and watched their graceful, unearthly dances beneath the lanterns. His daylight hours were spent on rambling walks through the city, companionable afternoons with his uncle, and a steady stream of visitors. Lord Elrond and his sons often came to their little cottage, bringing friends and relations to meet the lauded halflings. Sometimes the Lady Galadriel accompanied them, and the glow of her hair seemed to fill their parlour with sunlight.

As was his habit, Gandalf vanished every few weeks without a word, only to return to sup and smoke cheerily with his favourite hobbits before going away again. “Are you well, Frodo?” he would say, again and again, and each time Frodo would assure him he was, to which the wizard would ‘ _hmmph_ ’ and say no more. It was a welcome change, almost, when Gandalf’s discerning eye began to linger on Bilbo instead.

“Has Bilbo been resting well?” Gandalf asked, on one such sunny morning. He was watching Bilbo’s sleeping face as he tamped his pipe for an after-elevenses smoke. Frodo had fetched a rug and was settling his uncle more comfortably in his chair before draping it over his bony shoulders. “He does not look like himself.”

Frodo turned to him eagerly. “You see it too.” He felt something akin to relief when Gandalf nodded.

In the last months since they had sailed, Bilbo had grown pale and gaunt, the comfortable padding of old age and leisure quite worn away. With his wisps of snowy hair and dimmed eyes, he was a shadow of himself. He had begun to forgo their customary walks after dinner and could scarcely sit to read for a half-hour before succumbing to uneasy sleep. It was unsettling to Frodo, who had only ever seen Bilbo as young, no matter his age. Even as Bilbo stoutened and silvered with the passing years, his eyes had been unchanged, his spry liveliness giving him every appearance of health and vigour. But Bilbo was old now, and so frail that Frodo felt he might float away in the gentle sea-breezes.

“He sleeps constantly, yet he never seems rested. I've tried herbal teas and warm suppers before bed, but it seems to do little for him. Lord Elrond assures me he’s not ill.”

The lines around Gandalf’s mouth deepened. “He hardly ate anything.”

“He never does now.“ And what a shock it had been at first to see Bilbo, who had always had such a hearty appetite, regularly leave half his plate untouched, foisting the leftovers on Frodo with assurances that he was simply not very peckish today, thank you.

“Strange indeed.”

“He _is_ over a hundred and thirty,” Frodo said reasonably, though the recollection of his uncle’s mortality pricked him unpleasantly.

Gandalf scoffed. “Bullroarer Took ate a full nine meals a day until he breathed his last. Mere age is not enough to put hobbits off their food.”

“Perhaps it’s the lack of exercise. Even in Rivendell Bilbo was always rambling about in the woods, and here he keeps mostly indoors.”

“Perhaps, my lad.” The wizard seemed disturbed, however, and over candied fruit and scones the next morning, he announced that he would be on his way.

“But you’ve only just arrived!” Bilbo said, accepting a second cup of tea from Frodo. “My memory might be failing, old friend, but I am rather sure you said you would be staying a fortnight with us.”

“My work is never-ending, dear Bilbo, but I shall be back presently. Frodo, might you accompany me out the gate?”

Bilbo frowned at the pair of them, not so doddering that he couldn’t tell when Gandalf was scheming (which was, in Frodo’s experience, nearly all the time), but he let them go without comment. Gandalf said nothing as they went out into the garden, his brow drawn thoughtfully. He pushed open the gate with his staff and stowed his pipe away in one of his many hidden pockets. “Look after him for me and keep him close. I shall not be gone long.”

“Gandalf?”

The wizard stepped out onto the lane. “Keep him close.”

Irritation had Frodo striding out into Gandalf’s path with an insolent determination that would have amazed his old self. “What’s wrong with Bilbo? Tell me at once!”

Gandalf mumbled something about Brandybucks under his breath before stooping down to grip Frodo’s shoulder. “Let me seek my answers first, Frodo, and then you will know everything. Do you not trust me?”

Chastened, Frodo moved aside. “You know I do.”

“I shall return soon.” With that, he set off down the lane, and Frodo watched him until the swath of his cloak vanished over the hill.

He returned to the cottage with a heavy tread, filled with trepidation. Bilbo was still at the table, leafing through a book with fingers that shook ever so slightly. Frodo sat beside him and reached numbly for a biscuit. It was Belladonna’s recipe, a treat he had often begged his uncle for as a fauntling, but this morning the sugary dough tasted of nothing. He wished, suddenly, for Sam to comfort him, and Merry and Pippin to tease away his fears. He wondered what they were doing, and whether they might be thinking of him. Time passed rather oddly in the Undying Lands, but he thought it might be spring back in the Shire. Sam and Rosie would be tending the budding flowers and preparing their prize potatoes to go to market. Maybe there were purple snapdragons sprouting outside the door of Bag End, with daisies along the fence.

“Do you think the flowers are in bloom, Bilbo?” he asked. Bilbo hummed in absent agreement and turned a page, and Frodo nearly smiled.

The days passed as they were wont to do. Frodo did his best to behave normally, but he was not very successful. His walks became shorter, his absences from the cottage less frequent, and he coaxed Bilbo to eat, wheedling until the older hobbit became quite cross with him. He took to sitting outside with a book, watching the road to their cottage with an expectant eye.

True to his word, it was not many days before Gandalf appeared on the path again. Frodo waved a hand in welcome, hopping down from the fence, but his relief was cut short as the wizard drew near; Lord Elrond was with him, and their manner spoke of some urgency. “Is Bilbo inside?”

“Yes, taking a nap.” He looked to Elrond, but the elf’s face betrayed nothing, and in desperation he reached over to catch Gandalf’s sleeve. “Please. Please tell me. Is he dying?”

Gandalf’s face did not soften, but his hands were gentle as he pried Frodo’s fist from his robes. “No, my boy. And that is precisely what troubles me.”

 

* * *

 

“I will speak to him first,” Gandalf declared as they shuffled inside the cottage, “and alone.”

Elrond, who had laid a steadying hand on Frodo’s shoulder, looked disapproving. “Perhaps if we waited until we had more information . . . . ”

“I will not keep this from Bilbo,” Gandalf said sternly. “I have hidden enough, and I fear even his great capacity for forgiveness would not abide any more secrets.” There was a weight of old guilt in his voice, and Elrond did not object again.

Gandalf went away to Bilbo’s bedroom while Elrond led Frodo to the parlour. “It seems the task falls to me,” he said, with a wry tone. “Listen closely, Frodo: When we spoke of bringing Bilbo to Valinor, and sought the permission of the Valar to sail with you both, Mithrandir and I expected two outcomes for our friend: either he would shortly pass on in peace, his time spent, or Valinor would renew his strength for a few final years.

“The Undying Lands cannot grant immortality to a mortal, but the sands and winds of Valinor have certain healing properties. You looked ill, Frodo, before you came here. Now your cheeks are full of colour, and your eyes have regained some of their light.” Elrond took up Frodo’s hands with care. “Bilbo grows weaker, but there is no shadow of death that Mithrandir or I can sense around him. We can only conclude that he is not dying, though he grows wan and worn. It is not natural -- in all honesty, it is an outcome that we feared. He will continue to fade, but death will not come for him.”

A great fog seemed to have filled Frodo’s mind, and he struggled to focus on Elrond’s voice, for his words were not making sense. “Why? I don’t . . . . Why?”

“I fear that dark things leave a residue even when they have been swept away.”

“The Ring?” Frodo choked. “The Ring is doing this to him?”

“Mithrandir suspects it is so, and I do not disagree.”

A sting of pain scattered his wild thoughts, and he looked down to find himself clutching his own hand, nails digging into the puckered space where his finger had once been. “But the Ring is gone.” It sounded too much like a question to his own ears, and a blind panic began to swell in his breast. “I saw it destroyed! I saw it fall into Mount Doom!”

“Frodo, calm yourself. The Ring is gone. Pray sit down, or I fear you shall fall over.”

Frodo sank onto armchair, cradling his hand to his breast. “Then how?” he begged. “It was destroyed.”

With an elegant flick of his robes, Elrond crouched beside him. “Bilbo bore the Ring for sixty years. His good heart was not corrupted, but to bear something so evil for so long . . . perhaps it bound itself to him, in some fashion.”

“But it was destroyed,” Frodo repeated, helplessly.

“We all of us bear things with us that ought to have been left behind.” He shook his head decisively. “We do not believe that what plagues Bilbo is an active malice. Perhaps it is like a shade, a shadow of darkness, a scar from a wound that has healed badly, and so the scar pains him.

“If we are correct, the shade of the Ring will continue to do as it has done for so many years: prolong his life, stretch him thin, but keep him tethered to this realm far longer than it ought. Immortality is perhaps too strong a word; likely his life will end naturally, but it could take years, decades, centuries for the Ring’s lingering influence to fade. You remember the creature Gollum -- I think neither you nor I wish to see him suffer through such a long and painful decline.”

He did not want to ask the question for fear of hearing the answer, but he knew he must. “Is there no hope?”

“Mithrandir and I will to seek more counsel among my wisest kin in the city, but for myself I believe there must be some way to cleanse away the shadow of the Ring. Do not despair, Frodo. We would not leave our friend to be caught between life and death, even if we must seek powers greater than our own.”

“Well said.” Gandalf’s voice startled them both, and Elrond came to his feet as the wizard drew near with Bilbo on his arm, looking pale but composed.

“Bilbo,” Elrond murmured. “Are you well?”

“I hear tell that I cannot die,” Bilbo said, rather accusatorially.

The elf’s face twitched with something that might have been a smile. “Only you, _mellon-nín_ , could sound so unenthused by news of immortality.”

“Well, it seems like a very sorry sort of immortality,” Bilbo declared. His gaze fell upon Frodo then, and his bluster visibly gave way to alarm. “Oh, dear. Frodo-lad?” He shrugged off Gandalf’s hold and shuffled to Frodo’s side, sitting with him and reaching for his hands. Frodo gripped them with desperate strength. “Elrond, really, what _did_ you say to him? Frodo?”

“He has had an unpleasant shock,” Gandalf said quietly, and Frodo blinked back tears. “I should like some tea right about now, Elrond. Will you have a cup?”

When the two had disappeared discreetly into the kitchen, Frodo buried his face against Bilbo's shoulder and made an effort to slow his hurried breath. “I seem to have a knack for trouble,” Bilbo mused, “and I suppose it was foolish to think that sailing West would rid me of it.”

“How can you be so calm?” Frodo groaned.

“I’m not. I’m quite afraid, really.” He gave Frodo's hand a firm press. “But what good will it do to wail and rend my waistcoat? I’m sure Gandalf has a few tricks up his sleeve. He usually does.”

Elrond and Gandalf stayed to supper, discussing where they might go about seeking advice next, and left soon after with a promise to send news as soon as they had some. Bilbo retired to the hearth to rest and was asleep before his tea had cooled. Frodo sat with him, cradling his own untouched cup, and stared into the fire. For the first time in many months, the Ring haunted his waking thoughts.

He had been lauded and praised as the Ringbearer who cast evil into the fires and spared Middle-earth from wickedness; ballads sung and toasts raised in his name had been the worst sort of torture. Frodo knew what had happened on the mountain. He knew how shamefully he had lost himself. But for Sam -- brave, steadfast Sam -- and pitiful Sméagol, the Ring would have won. He loved it jealously still, and hated it beyond passion and words. Bilbo had carried the Ring for sixty years and then let it go. Frodo had carried it and his heart had been blackened by its false promises within mere months. In his darker moments, he wished that the Eagles had taken Sam away and left him there to the fires.

For several hours Frodo lingered at his uncle’s side and thought and thought. He wondered whether even Elrond, with all his great knowledge, would be able to give them an answer. He wondered if the fading would pain Bilbo, if it would twist him into an unrecognizable creature as broken and wretched as Sméagol. Would he someday share Bilbo’s fate, ensnared and forced to live beyond his allotted years? He could not bear to think that the Ring would have its revenge on both of them.

But what could he do?

Frodo rose and bent to kiss Bilbo’s parchment-thin cheek, breathing in the familiar scent of Longbottom leaf and fresh ink. They had always been an odd pair -- a mad, lonely old bachelor and an orphaned fauntling -- but his uncle’s absentminded affection was as much a part of his life as the rolling green hills of the Shire. Out of duty and out of love, Frodo could not let the Ring torment them any further.

A familiar, calm determination thrummed through his bones. There was one thing to be done: he would go to the city and convince Gandalf to let him help rescue his uncle. His last journey had ended in a victory that he had not fairly won. Perhaps the Valar meant for him now to go, to break what remained of the Ring’s clutching hold over both of them.

Perhaps, if he could find a way to save Bilbo, he might even deserve it.

* * *

 


	2. The Gardens of Lórien

 

* * *

CHAPTER ONE **_  
_ **

* * *

 

* * *

 

THORIN

* * *

 

Some time passed before the Green Lady came again to Thorin’s forge.

After many hours of delicate work, Thorin had finished his mithril circlet, its broad oak leaves entwined with lily-of-the-valley and subtle clusters of seed-pearls. He was proud of his creation -- even if a few of the smaller branches had been shaped a little clumsily -- but was quite at a loss as to what to do with it. He thought perhaps to make a gift of it to Freís or his grandmother, and so set it aside and gave it not much more thought.

A far more practical shirt of sturdy iron rings was his next project, but he had not been working on it long before the Lady Yavanna appeared again on his threshold, this time alone.

Thorin bowed his head, uncomfortably aware that his hair and beard were in sweaty disarray from his labours, but she seemed not to notice or care, for she drifted into the room before he could say a word of greeting.

“Has something happened, my lady?” he asked, for he could think of no other explanation for her presence.

“What a suspicious heart you have.” She made a leisurely turn about the forge, green vines curling around her toes, but her eyes never left him. There was a look about her that Thorin did not like -- cool and evaluating, with something akin to cunning. “You asked me of the fate of a hobbit. I bear you news of him.”

A nauseous certainty suffused his belly, pain swift on its heels. “He has died.”

“No,” she said. “But he ought to have. Bilbo Baggins has lived a long life, and his years are spent. I am trying to call him home to my Pastures, but something is holding him back, and he cannot be called.”

Thorin did not know how he should feel. There was relief that the hobbit still lived, but Yavanna’s solemn look filled him with trepidation. “I do not understand.”

“To live beyond one’s years is no blessing. It is a dark and unnatural thing.”

Thorin caught his breath. Dís had come to them bearing ill news of the magic ring that their burglar had found deep in the Misty Mountains. There had been tales too of the young Baggins who had borne that ring to Mordor at a great cost. The Company had gathered many nights in Durin’s Keep to hear sobering stories about darkening forests and hordes of Urûk-Hai and devastating, bloody battles among Men. Thorin had shuddered to think that something so vile had been in Bilbo’s pocket all along. “I was told that the great war was won."

“That is true. But wickedness leaves its own mark.”

Suspecting he would get nothing more than airy evasions, he did not press further. There was something more important at hand. “What will happen to the hobbit if he cannot be called?”

“It is a fate you would not wish upon your greatest enemy,” she replied, and Thorin’s heart splintered with ice.

“What can be done?” he cried, forgetting himself in his anguish. “What can be done to help him?”

Yavanna drifted away to settle herself onto one of the benches set against the wall, her robes curling around the stone like crawling stalks. “I will tell you a tale, Thorin Oakenshield. In the ancient times when hobbits wandered freely across Middle-earth, there lived a hobbit lass, Erda, and her mate Erágol. They lived happily together in a village of Men, blessed with a fruitful garden and many fauntlings to play at their feet. One fell winter, Erágol sickened. No healer could help him, though Erda made many offerings and wept many tears.

“Eru Ilúvatar, high above in his Timeless Halls and concerned with the many wars and griefs on Arda, took no notice of one ailing little hobbit. It seemed that all hope was lost. But Erda loved Erágol so dearly that she left her home and travelled across Varda’s starry path to Ilúvatar himself to beg for his favour, to ask him to heal her mate so that they might not be parted so soon.”

“Was her favour granted?” Thorin asked, when Yavanna seemed content to say no more.

“There are many endings to the tale. In some, Ilúvatar is touched by Erda's steadfast heart and restores Erágol’s health. In some, she becomes lost and dies in the stars before she reaches Ilúvatar’s Halls, and Erágol soon follows her to the Pastures out of sorrow. In some, she is turned away and returns home to find that Erágol has perished in her absence.”

Thorin stood silent for several moments. “Which is the true ending?”

“None of them,” Yavanna said, “and all of them. It is only a story.”

“If I were to ask -- if I were to go beyond these Halls ---”

“I cannot lead you from the Halls, for you are no child of mine. Only your Maker can say who is allowed in and out of his hold.”

“I have never heard of a dwarf leaving,” Thorin said. He could not understand what she wanted him to do and was growing frustrated. “Here we wait until we are called to rebuild Arda. I cannot ask.”

“Did your Maker not craft the Seven Fathers out of love, though he had not the permission of Eru Ilúvatar, Father of All?”

Her words were honeyed, but there was terrible strength beneath them; it took Thorin some effort not to flinch from her. Her braids seemed to move of their own power, flowering even as he watched, and her lovely face shimmered and shifted like pond-water -- so very unlike the people of stone, who were as reliable and slow to change as bedrock. She intimidated him in a way that Mahal could not.

She caught his gaze, and her eyes flickered. “Do I frighten you, son of Thráin?”

“Yes.”

His answer seemed to please her. “Then your honesty can be stronger than your pride. I leave you with this: remember that you seek to correct one last misdeed of Sauron.”

“My lady?”

“You do know, do you not, that Sauron was once a faithful Maia of my lord husband's house?”

Thorin bit back an oath. “I . . . I did not.”

“The march of time brings curious turns." Her voice was heavy with old regret. “Ply your tongue wisely.”

“I understand." Yavanna rose and made as if to leave. “A moment, my lady,” Thorin said, and he fetched his new circlet, offering it to her with a bow. “I would give this to you as a token of my gratitude.”

Yavanna did not smile, nor thank him, but she accepted the circlet with careful hands and set it atop her swaying coils of hair.

“I wish you well, Thorin Oakenshield,” she said, and she left as abruptly as she had come.

 

*************************

 

The Great Feasting Hall sat squarely in the center of the keeps. It was a cavernous room with silk banners and a dozen blazing hearths, crowded with banquet tables hewn of the most beautiful polished mahogany. There was always food and good drink, and the fires never burned low.

Thorin had not rested well, the Lady’s words spinning round and round in his mind, but hunger eventually drew him from his lonely bed to the Hall.

“Uncle!” Fíli waved his hand, flanked by his brother and Dáin. He reached out to tug the sleeve of Thorin’s tunic when he drew close enough. “Sit with us and hear about the battle for Dale.”

“Does it improve after a hundred retellings?” Thorin asked, and Dáin bellowed out a good-natured laugh.

“Jealous, Cousin? You'd have liked to have been there, I know. At least I can say I cut through more than a few of their ugly black hearts before they got me.”

“I would have taken my bow to them,” Kíli said, not for the first time.

And not for the first time, Dáin cuffed his ears fondly. “Ha! And I would’ve liked to see you try, laddie. The Urûk-Hai are nasty bastards, and it takes more than your wee little stick and twigs to slay their like!”

Fili snickered into his tankard. His brother turned back to his plate, scowling, before dealing him a brutish punch to the thigh. While Fíli and Kíli squabbled, Dáin turned his keen eyes to Thorin. “You’re scheming, Cousin."

“Have you been in the mead this morning already?” Thorin snapped.

“Aye, and now I _know_ you’ve a secret. What are you plotting?”

Thorin made a noise of disgust low in his throat and moved on, choosing a seat at his grandfather’s side. Thrór was repairing one of Frerin’s beard-clasps and scolding him for being careless all the while. Frerin seemed to be listening with only half an ear, more interested in the cakes he was stuffing into his maw.

Between Fili, Kíli, and his brother, Thorin sometimes wondered whether his father ever despaired for the line of Durin.

“Good morning, Thorin,” his mother said, watching Frerin from the corner of her eye with something like resignation. Thrór grunted his own greeting, attention mostly fixed on his tools and the delicate hinge-work.

Thorin tapped his mother’s forehead and put together a plate, though he had no real appetite. The Hall grew loud and merry as dwarrows spilled in from the keeps; Thráin soon arrived and kissed his wife fondly before sitting down with a mug of dark ale and an old book. Thorin ate what he could bear and listened to the arguments and laughter around him until a small commotion caught his ear.

Mahal had arrived, talking at the table of the Broadbeams. Thorin felt his chest constrict with dread and then reprimanded himself for being surprised. The Lord of the Halls frequently visited the Feasting Hall, mingling freely among them. Why should this day be any different?

“Thorin,” Frerin whispered into his ear. “Brother, what it is? You look as though you’ve been run through.” His hand curled into Thorin's sweating palm, pressing worriedly.

Thorin could not answer. He watched intently as Mahal finished his conversation with a Broadbeam elder, laughing jovially, and made his way to the table of the Longbeards. He took a seat at its other end, shaking the whole length of the bench as he did so, and began to speak with Queen Dinrís. The Vala seemed to feel the weight of Thorin’s gaze then, for he lifted his head to look down the table. “You have something to say to me, son of Thráin,” he boomed, and all eyes turned to them.

This was not at _all_ how Thorin had intended to make his request. His jaw clenched tight, words trapped behind his tongue.

“Say it now, child," Mahal called, brimming with good cheer. "I have no patience for faintheartedness.”

“Thorin,” his grandfather murmured. “Do not keep him waiting.”

“Brother?”

Thorin took a measured breath. He thought of Bilbo, white with shock, his small hands scrabbling against Thorin’s fist around his throat. He thought of the halfling’s joy in Beorn’s gardens, his smiling face lifted to the sunlight. He thought of his tears, the kindness of his farewell as he clasped Thorin’s hand and wept in the sickroom tent.

 _For Bilbo._ “I ask your permission to leave the Halls."

Mahal roared and slapped his massive palm against the table -- it shuddered mightily under his hand, jostling dishes and upending goblets, and Thrór’s face drained of colour. All noise in the great banquet hall seemed to cease at once. “What is this madness? _Leave?”_

“I must make a journey to help a friend, if I am able.” He remembered the Green Lady’s words and steeled himself. “A friend who has fallen ill of the foul deeds of Sauron.”

A great and awful stillness seemed to take the room then. Not a sound was uttered, not a dwarf so much as shuffled his feet. Mahal sat stiff and silent, and in his blazing face was a wealth of ancient pain. “You _dare,_ ” he breathed.

“I beg your indulgence to go to my friend.” Thorin briefly met his mother’s wide eyes before turning back to his Maker. “For the sake of the love you bear your children, I _beg_ you.”

For what seemed like an eternity, Mahal said not a word. Thorin met his glare as well as he could and tried not to tremble, though Frerin’s fingers shook around his.

“Never has a dwarf asked to leave my Halls,” Mahal said lowly. His face was as hard and bright as diamond. “Have your journey, Thorin Oakenshield, and travel where you like. But know this: if you linger seven days in any realm of Aman, there you will stay, and never return to your kin in my Halls.”

Thorin heard his father gasp, and Frerin’s hand tightened like a vise. Mahal rose to his feet as though the movement pained him and stormed from the Hall. The hearths spit up great, angry tongues of orange flame in his wake before easing back into their crackling calm, leaving the air thick with smoke.

In the tense silence, Dáin’s voice floated down the length of the table, sounding a little faint. “Well, then. Well. I suppose I was right, wasn’t I?”

 

******************************************

 

Word spread quickly through the keeps. It was not a great surprise that Balin came to Thorin’s chambers that evening with Fíli and Kíli, Ori, Bofur, Óin, and Bifur in tow, all of their old Company that dwelled in the Halls.

Bifur had been the first to follow Thorin and his sister-sons to their ancestors’ halls; a fever had taken him not six months after Dáin ascended the throne of Erebor. For quite some time afterwards, no one from the Company had come, until Bofur arrived after what had apparently been a chance cave-in deep in the diamond mines of the mountain. And what a blow it had been to see Balin and Óin and Ori appear, shaken and telling tales of horrific beasts in the depths of Khazad-Dûm.

“Well, laddie,” Balin said, when Thorin opened his door to find them there, “seems you’ve gotten yourself in a spot of trouble.”

Thorin grumbled a little but ushered them inside.

Never before had he weathered such an unpleasant day in Durin’s Keep. His mother had held him, tense and speechless, and then shut herself away in her workshop. Thrór’s furious reprimands had echoed off the stone walls for hours, and Thráin had been in tears as he’d pleaded with Thorin to go to Mahal and take back his words. Thorin had borne it all as stoically as he could and slunk away to his chambers when he could endure it no longer.

Bofur helped himself to a decanter of mead and began pouring out goblets and passing them around, and they settled at the table to hear Thorin’s tale. Thorin kept no details to himself, trusting that they might be able to suss out subtleties that had passed him by. Kíli and Fíli were as wide-eyed and entranced as dwarflings at his descriptions of the Green Lady, while Ori looked as though he were itching for a pen and ink to record the story of Erda and Erágol. They all of them cried out in alarm to hear of Bilbo’s plight and pestered Thorin with so many inquiries that he soon lost his temper.

“Durin’s bones, I do not _know_ ,” he shouted. “I don’t know why she came, nor where to go to help. She told me nothing but that hobbit tale and hinted that I should leave the Halls.”

Bofur whistled under his breath. “Not a terribly helpful lass, is she?” Bifur elbowed him in his side, looking deeply affronted on the Lady’s behalf.

“Did she mean you to go to Valinor, I wonder?” Balin mused aloud, carding idly through his beard. He had been still through the entire story, his brow creased in deep contemplation. Thorin hoped fervently that his old friend would be able to provide some wisdom when his pondering was done. “Perhaps she means you to seek information on your own. There must be a reason she has chosen not to tell you more herself. Perhaps the elves know something.”

Thorin decided, for his own sake, not to acknowledge the eager light that entered Kíli’s eyes then. “Yes! She might want you to find Bilbo in Valinor, Thorin.”

“Maybe it’s the _elves_ that are doing it,” Óin said darkly. “So many of them in one place would be enough to make anyone ill.”

Kíli grinned. “Have you still got your beard in a tangle about Tauriel being a better healer than you?”

Óin scowled and pretended not to hear.

“What could I do for him in Valinor?” Thorin demanded. “If it is dark magic, I would be of no use to him.”

“There must be a reason she told you, laddie. What does she want from you, I wonder?”

Thorin sighed and rubbed at his temples.

Kíli made a rude noise. “Lady Yavanna wouldn't have told you that story unless you were meant to follow it. We’ll go to Ilúvatar and ask him to save Bilbo.”

Bofur scratched his chin. “That’s all well and good, but how exactly _does_ a body go about finding the Father of All Things?”

There was a brief silence.

“If we went to the elves, we could ask them,” Kíli said.

“If they would be willing to help a dwarf.”

“It’s my understanding that only elves live in Valinor,” Ori ventured. “If they allowed Bilbo to stay there, they must hold him in high esteem. I think they would help us if it meant helping him.”

“You’re forgetting one thing,” Balin said patiently. “No one knows the way to Valinor. We none of us have ever been beyond these Halls. So far as I know, no dwarf ever has."

Thorin turned to look at the scribe. "Ori?"

Ori tugged his short braids nervously. “I’ve done a fair bit of reading, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen real descriptions of Valinor. There’s not a great deal of information out there about anything outside the Halls. Of course there are the old legends, but there's not much detail in them. If there ever were records, we don't have them now.”

Bofur shrugged. “Can’t be that hard to track him down, aye? We’ll just wander about and ask if anybody’s seen any old hobbits lately.”

“We,” Thorin said flatly.

“You didn’t think we would let you leave without us? It’ll be like old times, tramping about to pull our burglar’s arse out of the fire.” Bofur paused and stroked his mustache. “To be fair, it was usually him pulling our arses out of the flames. Canny little things, hobbits.”

“Absolutely not,” Thorin said.

There was an uproar. Fíli and Kíli were on their feet in an instant, and even meek Ori was red in the face with outrage. Thorin had been shouted at quite enough for one day and retreated to the hearth.

“Enough!” Balin said sharply to the others, and he went over to Thorin by the fire. “Surely you expected this. He’s one of ours, and it’s not the nature of dwarrowkind to forget kin.”

Thorin drew in an unsteady breath. “I did not let myself think of him. I could not.” he said roughly, and Balin’s hand came to rest on his elbow. “I must go, Balin. Let me do this for him.”

“No one’s stopping you, laddie. But we _are_ coming with you.”

 

*******

 

Frerin ambushed Thorin in his rooms the next morning.

“I would go with you,” he said.

“No.”

“You won’t prevent me going. I spoke to Adad already, and he said it would be good for me.”

“Did he?”

“Not in those exact words . . . oh, don’t look at me like that, Thorin! You all had adventures, and I want my turn. There is no danger in it. I’m dead already -- it’s not as though I can die again.”

Thorin wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled. “Did you not hear Mahal when he said that we could be stranded, _banished?”_

Frerin gave him an exasperated look, which, under the circumstances, seemed unjust. “I heard. Dís is going to string you from the ceiling by your beard when she finds out, and you might appreciate some support then.”

“I’ll not risk you.”

Frerin’s eyes kindled with familiar temper, and for once there was no shade of mischief in his face. “I choose to go with my brother.”

Thorin wondered, not for the first time, what madness he had begun. “As you will.”

 

******************

 

Ori had unearthed a paper (which had, curiously enough, turned up suddenly among his books, though he was certain he had not seen it there before) that told an old fable of a dwarf queen travelling around Aman. There was a brief mention of following an Outer Sea to the shores of the elves. It seemed as good a start as any: they would go west until they reached the sea and hope that Valinor was not difficult to find.

“It’s not as though it’s any more foolhardy than thirteen dwarrows and a hobbit crossing Middle-earth to confront a dragon,” Balin said dryly.

Thorin had to concede that this was true, though he did not have to like it.

No one else seemed to share their trepidation, seeing it either as a necessary evil or a fine adventure. Fíli and Kíli were nearly as eager as Frerin, though their excitement was tempered by the greatest obstacle of all that yet lay ahead: their mother.

“No.” Dís’s face was like stone, and she did not even look up from her hammer. “No. I forbid it.”

Kíli bristled, but Fíli, always the more intuitive of the two, spoke with sympathy. “Bilbo is kin, Amad. For honour’s sake, you cannot ask us to do nothing.”

It was not easy to see the unguarded anguish that flickered in Dís’s blue eyes before they hardened. She dropped her hammer down to the anvil and swung around to confront Thorin, who stood quietly by the bellows. “I am coming as well.”

“Sister . . . “

“No.” She marched toward him until their noses nearly brushed, her expression fierce; Thorin saw a sudden flash of little Dís at the training ring, competing against dwarrows twice her size, fearless and grinning like a wolf. “You listen to me,” she said dangerously. “I will not stay behind again, do you hear me? Not. Again.”

He did the only thing he could and ceded to the will of one who had always been stronger than himself.

It took more time and many more arguments for them to find provisions for their company of ten. It might have been more, for when he learned that his wife and sons were to go, Víli wanted to come as well. “Víli will stay to look after Amad and Adad,” Dís had said simply when Thorin had asked whether their number would be eleven. Thorin had no doubt that a loud and passionate quarrel had preceded that decision, but Víli was a wiser dwarf than he. It gave Thorin some comfort too that their parents would not be left deserted by their children.

They made as many preparations as they could, though Thorin could see that it irked Balin, with his orderly mind, to be left floundering with no clear notion of what to prepare _for_. The lands beyond the gates of the Halls were more a mystery than the trek across Middle-earth had ever been, but they did their best. Foods that would not rot and could be carried easily were efficiently gathered and packed. It was not as though they could actually starve to death, but like sleep, eating was a comfort and none of them were eager to find out what would happen if they went entirely without.

It was impossible to know whether they faced any real danger beyond the Halls either, but any dwarf worth their beard was never unprepared for combat. Dís strapped her war-axes across her back and wore Víli’s favourite dagger at her waist. Kíli brought his bow and Fíli his knives, and Frerin had slung over his shoulder one of Thrór’s spears (which Thorin strongly suspected he had acquired without their grandfather’s knowledge.) Thorin longed for the steadying weight of Orcrist in his hand, but he had had time enough in the Halls to craft many weapons, and he chose a new blade, strong and well-balanced. The rest of the Company bore their share of weapons, and Bofur, with an insouciant wink, brought his fiddle.

At last they were packed and ready. It seemed that hundreds of dwarrows had gathered in doorways and balconies, muttering and staring, a few of them waving or softly calling out blessings as the Company filed down the long foyer to the front gates. Thorin thought he saw his grandfather in the crowd, but he could not be certain. At the end of the hall stood Mahal, and at his side was Yavanna.

As Thorin neared, nine dwarrows trailing behind him, Mahal’s face might have been amusing to behold if it had not also been so frightening. His cheeks were near to purple with rage, but his wife’s willowy hand on his arm stayed any angry words. He slammed his golden axe upon the floor and the gates were flung wide.

“Go,” he said harshly, “and remember my warnings.”

“A safe journey.” Yavanna caught Thorin’s eye and lifted her hand to the circlet on her brow. “Fair skies go with you, and hasten your steps.”

At his side, Frerin gripped his spear, seemingly torn between excitement and fear, and Thorin felt his own pulse pounding in his throat. Out they stepped, and the gates swung shut behind them.

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

FRODO

* * *

 

 

When Frodo arrived at the house of Elrond in Valmar, out of breath from his walk and determined not to be sent away, the elf-lord seemed unsurprised to find a hobbit on his doorstep. “Gandalf said you would not be far behind,” he observed fondly as he drew Frodo inside. “Come. Galadriel will arrive shortly.”

Frodo’s resolve to leave had been tested when he realized that he would have to journey all alone to Valmar, for the City of Bells was some distance inland from the Bay of Eldamar, where their little cottage sat. He had visited the gleaming golden city with its tall silver arches often enough, but the roads of Aman were strange and frightening, for all that they were perfectly safe. Just as time passed strangely in Valinor, distances too seemed unreal and unearthly -- Frodo could walk for what seemed like hours in the woods, only to realize that he had scarcely gone a stone’s throw from the cottage, and what ought to have been a few days’ travel from the bay to the city felt as though it took no more than a half-hour. It was deeply unsettling.

But Frodo, his mind resolved, would not be deterred. He saw that Bilbo was comfortable in his chair, packed a modest elevenses in his knapsack, and went off to Valmar.

The sandy gravel paths of the bay gradually gave way to wide, golden fields of wheat-grass and sunflowers, not a single tree in sight for miles. The day was mild, with a pleasant warm wind, but Frodo did not tarry. He had spent the whole of the night in deep contemplation and now found himself dwelling on a tale Legolas had told the Fellowship one frigid day in the mountains. The winds had been so bitter, and their bodies so frozen and exhausted, that Aragorn had acknowledged that they could go no further that day. They’d taken what meagre shelter they could, huddling together under a rock outcropping. Merry and Pippin had tucked Frodo snugly between them, and to distract them all from their misery, Legolas had told them the story of _Ainulindalë_.

“Long ago, when there was nothing, Eru Ilúvatar brought to being Eä, the great universe, and called forth his Ainur, for he wished to create a beautiful world for his Children.” Legolas’s voice had taken on a slight chanting quality as he told a tale he had no doubt told many times before. “And so the fourteen blessed Ainur sang the Ainulindalë, the song of creation, and Arda was brought to being. Manwë swept Arda’s lands with wind to breathe, and Ulmo filled the seas; Aulë carved the rock and crafted the sun for Manwë to hang high. Varda walked across the sky, her footprints glittering stars, and Vairë wove them into constellations. Yavanna covered the stones with trees and grass and good growing things, and Oromë guarded the animals of the forest with his watchful eye. Nienna wept to see such beauty and watered her sister’s green lands until they burst with fruit and flowers; Vána touched them so that they might bloom, ever-young, with the changing seasons. Lórien and Estë wandered these gardens, and gathered to them visions of what they had seen, so that Ilúvatar’s Children might dream of beautiful things. Mandos lowered the sun and lifted high the moon, that the Children would be able to mark the passing of their days. Nessa danced with joy on the new grass so that those days might always be filled with laughter and good things. Eru was well-pleased with their song, and brought forth his Children, the Elves and Men of old, to settle Arda.” A sly little smile had curled his mouth then, and his pale eyes had flickered over to Gimli, who sat in uncharacteristically respectful silence. “And so too came the Dwarf Fathers, crafted and brought forth by the impatience of Aulë and adopted as his own by gracious Eru Ilúvatar.”

Gimli had scoffed then, breaking the spell that the elf’s words had wrought over their company, but Frodo had thought it a lovely story.

Hobbits did not often tell tales of the Valar with the exception of Yavanna, whom they honoured at each harvest with a full week of song and dance and feasting. They cherished the Green Lady even though she was not their Maker, and Frodo had always liked hearing of her deeds, but hobbits did not seek the wisdom of the Valar like the elves, or pray to them as Men did. Perhaps hobbits had when Arda was young, but such knowledge had been lost long ago; if they worshipped anything at all, it was the green earth that was so generous to them. Indeed, before Frodo had sailed West, the Valar had been little more than figures of storybooks to him.

In Valinor, the proof of their presence was all around him. With Legolas’s words fresh in his mind, Frodo was eager to share the half-formed plan that had sprouted from them. “I had a thought,” he ventured, as he and Elrond went up to the roof-terrace. “I’ve heard many tales of the Ainur here in Valinor. Would they help us, if we brought Bilbo to them?”

Elrond seemed to hesitate. “It was our immediate thought as well,” he admitted. “The Valar have their own limitations, mighty as they are. Melkor was once the most powerful of all the Ainur before he betrayed Ilúvatar and took the name of Morgoth. It is his perfidy that strengthened Sauron’s Ring.  We do not know whether even the chiefest among the Ainur could undo Morgoth’s work. In truth, I do not know that anyone short of The One himself could do it.”

Frodo felt as though something had settled in his chest. “Then I will go to him.”

Elrond halted right there on the staircase between one step and the next, and for perhaps the first time since Frodo had known him, he looked utterly astonished. “ _No_ ,” he said sharply, and Frodo shied away. “No one may go to the Timeless Halls. They are beyond Varda’s domain.”

“But----” Frodo began, but he was interrupted by Gandalf’s appearance at the top of the stairs. “Ah, there you are! What took you so long, my lad?"

Were Elrond a lesser elf, Frodo thought he might have rolled his eyes. As it was, he shook his head and guided Frodo up the stairs. “Come and have something to eat while we wait for Mother. She will arrive in her own time.”

Frodo was not so unsettled that the thought of Elrond’s delightful table-spread did not restore some measure of cheer to him. He was a hobbit, after all. They ate a leisurely dinner on the terrace and talked of inconsequential things.

Lady Galadriel arrived as the stars began to rise. She seemed calm and unruffled as she slipped off her silver travelling cloak and joined them at the table, giving no hints as to the news she brought them. She accepted a goblet of mulled wine and kindly asked after Bilbo.

“As well as he can be,” Frodo told her. “When I left him he was determined to go outside and weed the tomato patch.”

Galadriel smiled. “Very like him.” She set down her glass and turned to Gandalf, who stood smoking at the edge of the terrace. “We are not the only ones seeking to save him.”

The wizard looked momentarily bewildered. They shared a long gaze, and then his eyes widened. “Oh, for . . . _confounded_ dwarves!”

Frodo blinked.

“It seems that we are not alone in learning the fate of Bilbo Baggins,” Lady Galadriel said, and Frodo spared a moment to be grateful that someone felt the need to explain. “A number of dwarves have petitioned their Maker to leave the halls of their ancestors so that they might find help for Bilbo. They seek Valinor for aid. ”

“How did you learn of this?” Elrond asked.

Galadriel raised a brow at him in return -- Frodo had not thought her capable of looking so wry. “I dwell in the Gardens of Lord Lórien and Lady Estë. Even the Valar are not immune to the pleasures of gossip. There is no doubt: Thorin Oakenshield and his companions have left Aulë’s Halls.”

“Thorin?” Frodo thought of the mithril shirt glittering, light-as-air, in Bilbo’s hands. “You cannot mean the dwarf king whom Bilbo travelled with?”

“Eru forbid there should be another Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf said irritably. “Yes, the very same.”

Lady Galadriel put a staying hand on his arm and looked solemn. “As I walked in the Gardens of Lórien, I tread a path of dreams, thinking of their quest, and had a vision. The dwarves shall not succeed. They will linger too long in the Realm of the Firedrakes, and there they will be chained in flame until the world is remade.”

Gandalf made a sound of annoyance.

“Oh dear," Frodo cried. "What can be done? We can’t leave them there.”

“Of course not,” the wizard said crossly. “It is clear to me that Thorin will lead them in circles unless someone intervenes. When we reach them, Frodo, remind me to extract a promise from Thorin that he shall never again attempt to lead anyone on a journey farther than the hall to the dining table, and even then I would strongly suggest someone provide him with a map.”

Lady Galadriel turned away, but not before Frodo saw the edge of her smile. Elrond, however, was not amused.

“Mithrandir, you cannot mean . . . .”

“Yes, I can,” Gandalf said stoutly, “and I do.”

“Mother,” Elrond sounded almost plaintive, “surely you do not agree with this.”

“We are but Eldar and cannot see the true workings of Eä. If Aulë has let his children go, he knows of something that we do not, and cannot, understand. You must have faith.” She touched Frodo's cheek with her soft hand. “For now the matter of Bilbo's fate must be addressed, and soon. Frodo, will you go with me to the Gardens? I believe that if we ask, Lord Lórien and Lady Estë will allow you to walk a path of dreams, and we may find some answers there.”

Frodo looked from Gandalf’s expectant face to Elrond’s concerned one and managed a small smile for the Lady of Lórien. “I will go.”

 

******

 

It was with an anxious heart that Frodo returned to their cottage the next evening. He wandered for a while in the front garden, unable to settle his mind. He had never enjoyed deceiving Bilbo, but he knew that this time he could not burden him with the truth. His uncle would never let him go if he knew it.

Inside, Frodo found Bilbo at the table reading through his papers, and he spoke happily of his visit to Valmar while they took tea. “Galadriel has invited me to come to the Gardens of Lórien, Uncle,” he concluded, taking care to keep his tone light and cheerful. “I’ll go tomorrow, and Elrond has said he will stop by to see you while I’m gone and keep you company. I should like to see more of Valinor. I’ll tell you all about it when I return.”

Alas, Bilbo wasn’t fooled for an instant. “What nonsense has Gandalf dragged you into?”

“Nothing.”

“Frodo.” Bilbo grasped his arm, and his grip had not a fraction of its usual strength. “You must promise me that you won’t do anything foolish. I have lived my life, but you have not -- I couldn’t bear it if anything else were to happen to you. Do you hear me? Give me your promise.”

“I promise." It felt as though the lie would burn his tongue.

"Good lad," Bilbo said, and there they sat quietly until the candles sputtered low. After Frodo helped his uncle to bed, he stood at the bedroom window, remembering nights long past when he was tucked between toasty covers and told fantastical stories. He sighed and turned to leave, but at the threshold he could not help but look back once more at the frail figure huddled under the coverlet, already asleep.

They left at dawn the next morning. Frodo slipped from the cottage before the sun rose, and he and Gandalf retread the main road to meet Lady Galadriel on the outskirts of Valmar. Gandalf hummed as they walked, his earlier vexation seemingly forgotten. “Well, well . . . this shall be amusing indeed, Frodo. I had not thought I would see Thorin Oakenshield again.” He produced a pouch from one of his many pockets and tamped fresh leaves into the bowl of his pipe. “Though I suppose if any dwarf were to stir up trouble by leaving Aulë’s Halls, it would be him.”

Frodo, whose thoughts kept turning back guiltily to their cottage and its lonely occupant, latched eagerly onto the offered distraction. “What are Aulë’s Halls like? I suppose Gimli will go there one day. Do the dwarves never leave?”

“To my knowledge, they never have. Each of the Valar govern their lands differently. Aulë prefers to keep his children close to him. You know how dwarves are, my boy -- always suspicious of outsiders.” He paused. “Or perhaps you don’t. Gimli is a rather strange dwarf in that regard, and you haven’t met many others.”

“Have you been there?”

“Once or twice a very long time ago. The Istari go where they choose, for the most part. I have rambled about as much as the others beyond Valinor.”

“And what _is_ beyond Valinor?”

“Many things.” He tapped the stem of his pipe against his lips. “Beyond Valinor is the rest of Aman, the resting grounds of the races of mortals and beasts, where they wait until the remaking of the world. There are many realms, known by many names, but we Maiar call them the Ever-Lands.” He smiled. “A rather fanciful name.”

A terrible notion came to Frodo then. “Gandalf, Galadriel said the dwarves would be stranded in the land of the Firedrakes -- do not tell me that there are actual _dragons_ there.”

“Of course there are. They are mortal creatures. They must have a place to rest as well.” He puffed at his pipe. “There is a very real danger in traveling through the Ever-Lands, Frodo. I will not pretend that there is not, especially for a living soul. You have traveled far and braved more dangers than any one can reasonably be asked to bear. You need not feel as though you must take this journey too.”

“I’m not afraid of death.” How could he be, after spending so long in the shadow of it? “And I won’t go to the Pastures without Bilbo.”

“If only all creatures had the courage of hobbits,” Gandalf said affectionately. “I will do my best to keep you from the worst of the danger. You have my solemn word.”

“As long as we shan't have to pass through the resting grounds of orcs and goblins.”

“Those twisted creatures are of Melkor’s creation, not Ilúvatar’s. Wherever their resting ground is, it is not in Arda.”

They walked in companionable silence until another question occurred to Frodo. “If Aulë’s Halls are closed to outsiders, how did King Thorin learn about Bilbo?”

“I have my suspicions. Thorin’s request to leave must have caused a great deal of excitement.” His smile took on an edge of mischief, and he chortled happily. “What a commotion! Aulë’s temper is a marvelous thing to behold, Frodo, for it burns as high and hot as his Great Forge. I wish that I could have seen it.”

Frodo’s curiosity was now very much piqued. Bilbo had always spoken of his dwarf friends with the greatest warmth and of their leader with a fond sort of wistfulness that had seemed to discourage Frodo, even as a lad, from asking too much about him.  “It was very brave of him. I wonder what made him think to go.”

The wizard blew out a lazy ring of blue smoke. “I haven’t the foggiest notion, and I am keen to find out. Though I suppose love must make fools of us all.”

Frodo stumbled a little. “What did you say?”

Gandalf looked as though he’d sucked some smoke down the wrong way, and he coughed extravagantly, waving a hand before his face. “Gracious. Where _does_ your uncle get this dreadfully potent leaf?”

“I . . . Did you steal Bilbo’s pipeweed?”

“Never you mind,” the wizard said sternly, and he lifted his staff in welcome, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Ah, and there is Galadriel! Hurry, Frodo.” And off he went, his white cloak fluttering behind him.

Frodo stared after him and decided that perhaps some things were best left unasked.

With Galadriel at their side, they made excellent time. Before the sun reached its zenith they came upon the outskirts of a breathtakingly tall forest, the land studded with towering beech trees, ashy willows, and scarlet poppies as wide around as Frodo was tall. He peered, awestruck, into the woods as they followed a grassy road into its depths. He was astounded to glimpse windows and doors carved into the thick tree-trunks.

Galadriel saw his look of surprise and laughed lightly. They paused before a high gate of vines and willow branches, and she lifted her golden head and closed her eyes for a moment in bliss. “These are the gardens of Lórien, the Ainur of Dreams and Visions, for whom my home in Lothlórien was named. He steers and guides the paths of those who walk in dreams, and Lady Estë the Healer soothes night-terrors and brings sweet thoughts to grieving souls.” She raised a hand to stroke the trellised gates, and branches seemed to curl in on themselves, parting to reveal the entranceway. “Estë asked Lady Yavanna to plant these gardens as a gift to her husband so that she and Lórien might walk these paths together, tending the dreams of those who dwell in Arda.”

The gates were fully open now, and Frodo could see that the road continued deeper into the trees. They had not taken more than three steps inside, however, before two figures appeared before them, seemingly from the air itself. Galadriel and Gandalf knelt, and Frodo hastened to his knees, though he was unable to lower his eyes from the magnificent sight before him.

The Valar seemed more shadows than beings, their bodies composed of something almost like dust motes, if that dust were made of stars; their glittering faces were near to transparent, though none the less beautiful for it.  They pulsed and glowed with warm amber light and seemed to ripple formlessly in the wind as they drew closer.

“Ringbearer,” said one of them -- Frodo did not know whether it was Lord Lórien or Lady Estë, for they looked perfectly alike with their colourless long hair and their swirling, wispy robes. “We welcome you to walk the paths.”

Gandalf’s staff nudged Frodo gently in the back. He startled, and realized that he had been gawping silently at them. “I . . . thank you.” He knew he was blushing, and in his mind he felt a warm flicker of amusement not his own.

“Come,” the other Vala said, extending an upturned palm. “May you dream of pleasant things.”

Frodo looked behind him; Gandalf smiled and Galadriel made a graceful shooing motion, her ageless eyes soft. Smoothing nervous hands over his waistcoat, Frodo breathed deep of the sweet air and followed Lórien and Estë into the trees.

 

************************

_He walked with Sam down the lane, and with each step they took, Sam seemed to grow older, his steps slower, his hair whiter, until at last Frodo turned to look at him and there was no one there beside him._

_He was in his uncle’s parlour in Bag End. The lamps were dimly lit, and Frodo followed the sound of muffled weeping to the kitchen._

_On the table there lay the body of a dwarf, his chest unmoving. His black hair, streaked with veins of silver, dripped beads of blood onto the floor. Bilbo sat at the table and wept and wept, and his tears fell into a porcelain teacup, filling slowly until it shattered. Frodo cried out as the water swept Bilbo away._

_He dove down, reaching out, only to find the faces of his mother and father before him, their eyes open and peaceful as they drifted with the current. He screamed, and the water filled his throat with salt._

_And then he was flying, soaring high above the water atop an eagle, toward a towering silver mountain crowned by white clouds. The wind sang in his ears, and joy lifted him higher and higher, until he thought his heart should burst.  Up he flew, over the mountain, over the clouds, until the sky was left behind and all that remained were stars._

_Frodo?_

“Frodo?”

Frodo blinked, his eyes watering. He was lying on the grass and Gandalf was patting his cheeks briskly. He took one shuddering breath, and then another, and was soon able to sit up gingerly. Galadriel gave him a skin filled with cool water, and greedily he drank it down.

“Can you speak of what you saw?” 

He told them, and though Gandalf’s hands tightened on his shoulders when he spoke haltingly of his parents, neither one of them said a word until he had finished.

“I believe Lórien and Estë have granted you a special gift,” Galadriel mused, “for they have shown you your path. In your dream, the Eagles of Manwë bore you to the mountain wreathed in clouds: Mount Taniquetil. It is the highest peak in all of Arda, and home to Lord Manwë.”

Gandalf seemed disturbed, however. “Curious indeed. It seems we are to pay Manwë a visit once we have collected our dwarves.”

Frodo looked to Galadriel and, feeling a little silly, thought, _And what of the stars?_

Galadriel did not look at him, but her voice was clear and crisp in his mind. _Mount Taniquetil is said to touch the realm of Manwë’s wife Varda, Elbereth Gilthoniel, Keeper of the Stars._

 _And what is beyond them?_   Frodo pressed. _Elrond said Ilúvatar’s Timeless Halls were beyond Varda’s realm._

Galadriel merely smiled.

A resolution was growing in Frodo’s breast, and he knew then what he would do. He would go with the wizard to rescue Uncle’s friends, but when they came to Manwë’s mountain, he would find his own way to reach Ilúvatar, whether Gandalf liked it or not.

Task done, there was no reason to tarry in the Gardens. Galadriel took them to her home, carved into a gigantic birch tree, and plied them with all manner of travelling gifts: water-skins and lembas, blessing-stones and lamps and healing potions and oilcloth cloaks. To Frodo she gave a delicate, thin-bladed dagger in a handsome sheath.

“It is not Sting,” she said, “but it ought to serve you well, should the need arise.” She kissed Frodo’s brow and warmth spread from his head to his toes. “Safe journey, little one, and do what you believe is right.”

Frodo held her blessing close to his heart and thanked her.

He and Gandalf left soon after, Frodo’s knapsack a great deal heavier than it had been when they arrived. They passed rapidly through the woods but at the other side, the wizard came to a sudden halt. “It is not too late for you to turn back. There is no shame in it,” he said kindly.

Frodo shook his head, and on they went. They had not walked far, however, before they were halted again.

“Mithrandir,” called a low voice, and Frodo turned to see an elf moving swiftly up the road toward them. She was beautiful in the ethereal manner of all elves, but to Frodo’s mind she looked nothing like Arwen or Lady Galadriel. She even moved differently, her steps quick and fluid but somehow rougher, with a coiled power beneath every motion. She seemed dangerous in a way that the Fair Folk rarely did. The long knife at the belt of her tunic and the bow strapped to the pack-roll on her shoulder only added to that impression.

Gandalf peered at her for a moment. “Ah! Captain Tauriel, isn’t it?"

She dipped her head and shining red hair flowed over her shoulders. “I am a Captain no longer. Well met, Mithrandir.” Her eyes flitted over to Frodo, cool and evaluating.

“I did not expect to see you here,” Gandalf said mildly. “It was my understanding that the elves of Greenwood chose to remain in Middle-earth for now.”

“I could not return to Greenwood,” she replied in a tone that said quite plainly that she would not elaborate. “Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn kindly allowed me to dwell with their kin in Lothlórien, and when they sailed, I sailed as well. I hear that you are to leave Valinor for the Ever-Lands.”

“And who told you that?”

“Lady Galadriel.”

Gandalf mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘ _of course_.’

Tauriel shifted from one foot to another, betraying a smidgen of unease for the first time. “If you allow me, I would accompany you.”

Frodo could only be grateful that Gandalf's piercing gaze was not directed at him. “To what purpose?”

She met his stare unflinchingly. “One that will not interfere with yours.”

He appeared to consider this, combing one hand idly through his smooth white beard. “It would not hurt, I suppose. But it must be Frodo’s decision. This is his quest.”

Frodo shifted, a trifle flustered as two pairs of searching eyes fixed on him expectantly. “Bilbo says one can never have too many friends on the road.” Besides, if Galadriel had sent her, he wasn’t inclined to question her judgment.

The rigid set of Tauriel’s shoulders eased a little. She drew her short sword into her hands and bowed formally, as though to present him with it. “You have my bow and blade to command, Master Hobbit.”

Frodo glanced down at the wicked, curved steel and tried not to wince. “Just Frodo, please.”

Gandalf looked between the two of them for a moment longer before tamping the ground with his staff. “No use standing here and nattering like fools. Let’s be off!”

 

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos!
> 
> Notes:
> 
> [1] Lily-of-the-valley means “the return of happiness” in the language of flowers. 
> 
> [2] The Valar are a fascinating bunch, and I’ve taken a lot of liberties with describing their physical forms and personalities, as well as the creation myth, so uh, sorry about that. 
> 
> [3] Cinderstrato’s Handy Visitors’ Reference Guide to Arda:
> 
> Eä: the Universe  
> The Timeless Halls: Ilúvatar’s realm, which is outside of Arda completely and possibly outside of Eä as well.  
> Arda: the Earth, basically  
> Middle-earth: the Continent that includes the Shire, Erebor, Gondor, the Greenwood, Mordor, etc. [Analogous to ancient proto-Europe/Asia, debatably.]  
> Aman: the Continent to the West of Middle-earth on which Valinor is located, separated from Middle-earth by the Sea. [Analogous to a sort of heaven, since it houses the Valar, immortals, and mortal souls that have passed beyond life in Middle-earth.]  
> Valinor (The Undying Lands): a collection of cities/lands inhabited by Elves who have left Middle-earth, as well as the individual dwelling grounds of a majority of the Valar.  
> Valmar: the central city of Valinor  
> Bay of Eldamar: eastern coast of Aman where ships sailing West from Middle-earth first land in Valinor; Bilbo and Frodo’s little cottage is here  
> Outer Sea: the sea that hems the far western coast of Aman; the Halls of Aulë are near this coast.
> 
>  


	3. The Songs of Ulmo

 

* * *

CHAPTER TWO **_  
_ **

* * *

 

* * *

  _THORIN_

* * *

 

“SHOULDN'T WE MAKE CAMP now, Brother?”

Thorin summoned to himself all the patience he possessed (which was, admittedly, not much), and said with deliberate composure, “My answer is what it was ten minutes ago. We might yet make the ridge before the sun sets.”

Frerin huffed and fell back to walk with Kíli and Fíli. Thorin could hear their hushed voices and the occasional poorly-concealed chuckle as they pushed on, but he ignored their twittering and kept his attention fixed on the path ahead of them.

None of them had had the faintest notion of what to expect when the Halls unsealed, but it certainly had not been this. Before the keep stretched a perfectly ordinary stone road, carved into the flats of a perfectly ordinary valley and extending beyond the reach of their sight. It had reminded Thorin of nothing so much as the lazy, rolling pass that stretched between the lush borders of the Shire and the Blue Mountains.

Their party had lingered uncertainly on the marble steps of the Halls, the doors locked tight as a tomb behind them, until Balin had taken up his pack and said with his usual aplomb, “Shall we be off then?”

So began their journey. They followed the road west at a clipping pace, taking only a few short breaks for meals and rest, and camping at night in the shelter of what thin trees stood in the valley. The weather was neither mild nor unpleasant, and while the valley had green grass and vegetation enough, there was not the smallest sign of any bird or beast. Indeed, everything along the road was strangely lifeless.

Frerin and the lads seemed disappointed by the lack of flaming rivers of fire or dwarf-devouring monsters or forests of enchanted trees. Thorin, who had been grimly prepared to fight every step to Valinor, was disconcerted as well. Thus far their journey did not so much resemble a quest as it did one of Bilbo’s absurd little walking holidays.

Thorin had never had a taste for aimless travelling like this. As a dwarfling he had been very fond of tales of daring, and the clamour of battle and the first rush of discovery were still pleasing to him, but he disliked the daily drudgery of life on the road. What lay beyond the horizon did not interest him. One tree or hillside, after all, was much the same as another. He was not made to wander, though he had wandered enough out of sheer need. He preferred the comforts of home, of having one place to belong to, and his Maker's doors closing behind him with such finality had sent a shiver of real horror through his bones.

It was only the thought of the hobbit, weakened and ailing with only _elves_ for company, that bolstered his steps and drove him onward.

The others seemed to feel a similar urgency -- it was their burglar, after all, who was in peril -- and never complained about the pace. Frerin, however, found everything on the road worthy of a second look. He lagged behind constantly and could not seem to understand why Thorin would wish to move quickly.

When the next hill brought them to a thicket of woods, Fíli and Kíli went ahead to scout. From the rear of their little caravan, Dis called out for them to stay close, but Thorin thought privately that it was a futile wish. They had always gone where they chose.

With his preferred walking companions vanished into the underbrush, Frerin returned to Thorin’s side. He paused every other moment to examine a bit of shrubbery or a particularly interesting cloud; after the third time he nearly tripped himself while walking backwards to talk to Balin and Ori, who were following sedately behind them, Thorin finally caught his shoulder.

“Watch your step, you’re clumsy as a newborn mountain goat. And come here, your braid is undone.” Thorin pushed at him until he could reach his brother's five-stranded plait, which was fraying pitifully. “Do you never brush your hair?”

“My comb is back in my chambers, I think. Or in the tanners' shop. Or the library. It’s somewhere.”

“Perhaps that explains Kíli.”

“You can't blame me for that one. I died before he was born.”

Thorin grunted and pulled the smooth, dark locks tight before refastening the heavy silver clasp. The motions were familiar and required no thought at all. How many times, after all, had he been called upon to make his disheveled siblings more presentable before an important court appearance or a banquet? More than he could count, he was certain.

Frerin hummed and reached back to feel the finished braid. “I could devote more time to grooming if we stopped to rest more than once a day. I saw a stream not too far back."

“A waste of time.”

“A half-hour won’t hurt anything."

“Enough.”

Frerin laughed at him. "So serious! Do you hear him, Balin? He sounded a little like Fundin just then, I think."

Thorin felt his hackles rise. "I told you this was no frolic in the woods. You shouldn't have come if that was all you wanted."

"For pity's sake, nothing says I can't help _and_ want a bath. If you were this merry on your last journey, Brother, it's a wonder anyone went with you! I wouldn't have."

“Aye, and I wouldn't have wanted you! I know you’re foolish, but I hadn’t thought you so selfish as well.”

Frerin drew back as though he’d been roundly slapped. He stared at Thorin, his mouth working wordlessly, before he yanked his braid from Thorin’s hands and stomped away up the road.

Ori and Balin’s amiable chattering had ceased. Thorin felt the weight of several eyes on his back, but he steeled himself and pushed wearily on ahead.

Their camp that night was an uneasy one. Thorin found he wasn’t in a mood fit for conversation and kept to himself at the edge of the fire. When he finally managed to fall asleep, his rest was consumed by unpleasant, half-remembered dreams. After a hasty breakfast of watery porridge, they walked on. There were no songs this morning, no poems from Ori nor bawdy ditties from Bofur, and an edge of tension had enveloped their company. Thorin was certain that Mahal’s warning was weighing heavily on them all, for they had been following the path three days and nights already, and still there was no sign of the coast. With each hill they crested to find nothing but more lonely road ahead, their spirits sank lower.

By midday, Fíli, Kíli, Frerin, and Bifur had gone on ahead, hoping to find some definite signs of the shore. Dís, after a time, fell back from where she was walking with Óin and kept pace at Thorin’s side. For some distance they walked in silence, the only sound the soft tinkling of Dís’s earrings.

“You are too harsh on him,” she said abruptly.

“I told him this wasn’t a journey for his own amusement.”

“You know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

"He is foolish."

"He is _young_."

“You were scarcely eighty when we came to Ered Luin. You organized the camps and the guard and handled the finances and raised the boys nearly on your own," Thorin said. No amount of hard feelings between them now could erase the deep respect he had for his sister, who had kept the tattered remains of their family together while he had struggled to rebuild a kingdom. “Age means nothing.”

Dís tugged at her marriage braid to unravel a little snarl from the wind. “He hardly set foot out of Erebor before Smaug came. Azanulbizar was his first battle. He didn't have the luxury of the years we had and the things we learned from them.”

“The luxury of never staying more than a year in one place? The luxury of begging at the villages of Men for enough work to feed ourselves?”

“Mahal save me from your ceaseless dramatics! The luxury of _living_ , you insufferable marble-headed, scraggly-mustached . . . .” She stopped and took a deep breath, and in more measured tones said, “Don't punish him because you are afraid.”

“Perhaps you should take your own advice,” he snapped.

It would have been kinder if Dís had leapt at him to tear his beard from his chin. Instead she gave him a look of such cold disappointment that he felt his innards would shrivel from the shame of it.

“I spoke poorly,” he said, when he could bear the silence no longer. He resisted the urge to shuffle his feet. “I will try to be more patient with Frerin, though he must learn to accept how it is on the road. You always coddled him.”

“And you never did.” She dipped her head in reluctant acknowledgement, and for an instant, it almost seemed as though she might smile at him -- but then Fíli and Kíli tumbled from the bushes, shouting excitedly. The warmth ebbed from her eyes, leaving only flint behind, and Thorin told himself that it did not sting.

The company drew together to see what the commotion was all about: Frerin and the boys had found a seashell in a nearby stream, and Kíli proudly held the muddy conch aloft like it was the fabled Fire-Opal of Nelínori.

“The sea can’t be far,” Fíli said eagerly. “We found it close by -- a mile west at most.”

“Well done, my lads,” Dís said, taking the shell in hand to polish with the hem of her overskirt before peering at it like she expected to find fortune-runes written on it.

“Only a mile or so, you say?” Balin asked. When the lads began to bicker over how far _exactly_ it had been, he turned to Thorin. “We should keep on before we lose the light. It’s not a definite sign, but it is better than nothing.”

With the hope that their journey’s end might already be upon them, their steps were lighter. They travelled with purpose, the distance eaten up under determined strides.

Thorin focused on the rhythm of his steps in an attempt to dissipate the sick feeling that had begun spread in the pit of his belly. He had no great fondness for the notion of being among elves yet again, but what he might find in their lands worried him. Yavanna had not told him how Bilbo fared, nor whether a cure could be found. Had he come only to discover that he was helpless? Would Bilbo welcome him? The terms of their parting had been far kinder than he had deserved, but nearly a hundred years had passed since that afternoon on Raven Hill. Perhaps his arrival would only bring the hobbit more distress. Perhaps he had been selfish to think that Bilbo would desire his help, let alone his presence.

These gloomy thoughts were banished, however, as they climbed the next low rise, for beyond it was the sea. Thorin’s stomach lurched.

There on the horizon stretched a flat expanse of yellow-grain sand and jutting cliffs of granite, with no sign of any great glittering elvish city. Indeed, there seemed to be no sign of any life at all, though the road clearly ended here -- no ruins, no docks, not even so much as a speck of a boat far offshore.

Silently the company crossed down to the sandy shore, as if moving closer might, by some spark of magic, reveal a bustling port-city to their eyes, but there was nothing there but water and rock and endless, pale sky.

Thorin stared at the calm water lapping against his boots, and if not for the sake of his pride, he might have kicked at it with a few choice curses. As it was, he steadied himself and turned to face the disappointed faces of his company.

“We’ll make camp here tonight and go on in the morning.”

“Go where?” Óin asked.

“Wherever we need to go,” Balin said reprovingly. “Let’s have a fire now and rest for a bit.”

With only a little grousing, camp was constructed on the highest swell of the sands. Crooked logs of driftwood made for serviceable seats, and the smaller, drier branches burned well. When the sun lowered, the sea-breezes cooled, and they all huddled together gladly by the warmth of their fire.

“‘Tis too still out here,” Bofur mused as they finished up a cold supper of rye bread and cheese. “We’re the only living things ‘round here for miles -- I’d swear by it.”

“Let’s have a story then, so it isn't so quiet,” said Fíli, pausing to muffle a yawn into his brother’s shoulder.

“I have one,” Frerin said, and he stepped away from the pile of driftwood he had been picking through idly for chips suitable for carving. “How would you like a story from the tender years of your Uncle Thorin, hmm? I’m certain it’s one you’ve never heard before.”

Thorin stiffened, pierced with a suspicious dart of dread --  a reaction which apparently escaped no one, if the frankly sly smiles of his sister-sons and Bofur were any great indication.

“Is that so? Do tell, o beloved Uncle,” Kíli said.

Frerin cleared his throat and perched himself with exaggerated dignity next to Óin. “This, beloved sister-sons, is a tale concerning your venerable Uncle Thorin and a Blacklock queen,” he began, and at that moment Thorin deeply regretted his sharp words of the day before.

“On the auspicious occasion of Grandfather’s one-hundredth year of rule, emissaries from all the great dwarfish kingdoms were invited to a summer market to be held in Erebor -- Stiffbeards and Ironfists, Broadbeams and Firebeards and Stonefoots alike. Ah, it was a sight, lads!

“Now, several of the cannier lords brought with them their unmarried sons and daughters, thinking to catch the interest of young Prince Thorin, who had lately turned fifty and would soon be reaching the age for engagement. And so with the diplomats came the marriage-hunters, decked in finery and instructed to woo the eldest prince, for the younger was but a charming, handsome lad of thirty-eight -- though even then he had already broken his fair share of hearts ---” Here, Dís snorted loudly. “Well, unfortunately for them, the Crown Prince was repulsed by their maneuverings. He was scowling and growling and offending all the guests, and Adad was in absolute despair of his manners. But, a week before the market-games were to begin, the delegation of the Blacklocks arrived.

“They were led by their good queen, Oûni, a spirited old dwarrowdam with a beautiful white beard that nearly reached her waist and a right hook worthy of a hundred verses. She and Amad had been great friends in their youth, and for some time they had harboured hopes of a further connection between their two families. With her to Erebor came her granddaughter Princess Nûr, a well-spoken lass with a face even elves would admire. Thorin, with his usual grace, rejected the princess and managed to mortally offend the queen all within a day.

“Now, here is an important bit, lads, so listen closely. Your uncle, at this impressionable age, was extraordinarily fond of poetry.” At this, Balin’s distinctive chuckle drifted over from the other side of the fire, and Thorin felt a cold sweat begin to bead on his upper lip. “Thorin, enamoured of the noble verse and possessed of a fine deep voice and no little talent on his harp, fancied himself something of a troubadour. Indeed, a passionately romantic heart beat in Thorin’s gruff breast, just waiting for a lad or lass to unburden all these instincts of the serenading lover.” The breathless silence was broken by Dís, who honked out a raucous laugh and then hastily wedged her fist into her mouth.

“Thorin had lately been working on love-poems and could think of little else. Every spare moment was spent on composition. I am sorry to say, dear sister-sons, that it reached the point that the sight of Thorin holding his harp was enough to send the rest of us scurrying away on urgent business. Only dear Amad, with the long-suffering heart of a mother, indulgently listened to each of his songs.

“Now, when Thorin realized that he had offended Amad's dear friend (and had received a good thrashing from Amad herself), he was filled with remorse and resolved to make amends to Oûni for his insult. Amad suggested that he memorize a traditional poem of contrition and sing it for her as a gesture of goodwill, but he decided that such a gesture was not enough: indeed, he would present to her a poem of his own invention, to show the depth of his respect.”

Thorin had resolved not to look up from his boots but unfortunately could not also block from his ears the sound of Kíli squeaking in sheer, unbridled glee.

“On the eve of the opening of the market-games, Thorin tuned his harp and sought an audience with Queen Oûni. But alas, under the gimlet eye of the queen, Thorin was struck by a sudden attack of nerves, and quite forgot all the words to the poem about the honour of the Blacklock clan that he had penned for her. In a blind panic, he began to sing the first thing he could think of -- a rather sweeping epic of a passionate and forbidden love. Thankfully, he had not gotten beyond the third verse before Oûni flew up from her chair in a rage.

“‘Impertinent, saucy lad!’ she hollered. ‘Why, I’ll grind your big presumptuous nose into the dirt, if for no other reason than for those dreadful rhymes!’

“In vain did Amad try to convince her friend that he had meant no insult, but the queen was sure that her good name had been besmirched by the young prince's amorous advances. And so to avenge her honour, she challenged Thorin before the entire court to compete against her in the wrestling games, and there, in front of the royal entourage and a goodly portion of the visiting dwarrows, Oûni soundly thrashed the Crown Prince of Erebor.”

There was a dull _thud_ as Bofur toppled from his log. Ori had both mittened hands clasped tightly over his mouth. Dís was not even attempting to hide her laughter, and her sons were nearly bent-double, sobbing on her shoulders. Even Bifur was chortling.

Thorin looked to Balin and was betrayed to find his friend using his beard to dab away merry tears. Surely a king should not be expected to endure this! Drawing what was left of his dignity about him, he rose and walked calmly, if swiftly, away from the camp, howls of laughter chasing him all the way down the shore.

 

***

 

Thorin had not been sulking long before Balin came to find him, still chuckling under his breath. “You do have to admit it makes for a fine story,” he said.  

“Fíli and Kíli will never respect me, if he and Dís have their way,” he grunted.

“Oh, come now, no need for hard feelings,” Balin soothed. “We’ve all had our share of youthful foolishness, the lads especially. They’ll hardly think the worse of you for it.” The smile that appeared then was ripe with mischief. “Besides, we’ll be in need of good stories to keep our spirits up on the road, and I do believe the lads might be equally interested in hearing about wee Frerin’s first visit to Dale, eh?”

Thorin’s lips twitched despite himself, and he covered Balin’s hand with his own, giving it a firm, grateful squeeze.

“There’s a good lad. Now come along and join us. Bofur’s determined to have some music, and we’ve a mind to indulge him. There’s nothing better for easing the sting of disappointment.”

Balin returned to the fire where Bofur was readying his fiddle, and soon the sea-air was filled with stomping, clapping, and the swoops of a lively jig. Thorin lingered for a while longer at the water’s edge, feeling foolish. _Do you never laugh at yourself?_ Bilbo had asked him once, when Thorin had refused to respond to the wizard's insufferable teasing. _You ought to try it sometime -- you may surprise yourself with how amusing you can be._

The jig flowed seamlessly into a miner’s calling-chant, and the chorus of his kin’s laughing voices seemed far away, a melody half-remembered. Drawing his coat closer against the sudden chill, Thorin turned to join them, but a tremor beneath his boots had him quickly twisting around again.

The waves were beginning to churn near the shoreline -- from the dark depths something was rising, great channels of foam sluicing off and spilling into the surf. Before Thorin could call to the others, the water swelled and surged forward; the sound of the fiddle stopped with a loud, discordant screech as a spray of salty white water erupted high into the air.

“Fall back!” Thorin barked, groping for the blade at his belt, but he never reached it. Before he quite knew what was happening, he had been swept off his feet and the sand was falling away, the cries of his kin ringing in his ears.

Up, up, and up he rose, and Thorin’s stomach plummeted. Disoriented, he struggled to turn onto his back and found himself looking up into the hideous face of a giant Man.

“Uncle!” Fíli screamed.

“Run!” The shelter of the nearest thicket was some distance back, but if Thorin could distract the monster for even a few moments, they would be able to reach it in time. “To the trees, all of you!”

But Dís, war-axes flashing, was already charging to his defense with a piercing _"Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!",_ the others fast at her heels.

Just as Thorin was attempting to decide whether or not it would be sufficiently kingly to bite the massive finger nearest him, the giant brought his palm close to his face.

“I did not intend to frighten you, little dwarf,” the creature said in a low, ponderous voice, like the tide on soft silt. “It has been a very long time since I have seen your kind here. I had forgotten that you do not like to be picked up.”

Very, very gently, he lowered his hand to the ground, allowing Thorin to dismount with as much grace as he could. Frerin, white-faced, grabbed his arm as soon as he reached their company, who stood all in a somewhat confused cluster with their weapons upraised. Thorin clasped his arm briefly in reassurance before turning round to confront his captor.

The sea-creature was broad and powerful and very unpleasant to look upon. Limp strands of seaweed hair hung from his proud, helmeted head, and from the gaps in his mossy bronze armour, tough flesh glimmered with scales of silver and pearl. His lamplike eyes were lidless and round, like a fish’s, giving him a look of perpetual surprise that might have been amusing on a less imposing face.

“I am Ulmo, Watchman of Sea and Storm,” the giant said, bending to peer at them curiously. “But what are you doing so far from Brother Aulë’s Halls? It is not safe out here for you.”

Thorin let his fist fall from the pommel of his sword, and he gestured at Ori to lower his war-hammer. “We left to help a friend in peril, Lord Ulmo.”

“Laddie,” Balin murmured behind him, but Thorin shook his head warningly. He would not lie to kin of Mahal, nor had he any desire to offend one of the Valar -- in particular a Vala who was capable of summoning fearsome tidal waves and gales, if Thorin remembered the tales correctly. “We are travelling to Valinor, to find the elves on the sea-coast.”

“Then you have come to the wrong shore, little dwarves!” Ulmo said. “Valinor is vast, but if you seek the coastal city of elves, it is to the east, not the west.”

Óin muttered such a foul curse that the tip of Ori’s nose flushed pink.

“I see I have brought you ill news. But come, it is not so far to travel, if you follow Sister Nienna’s river. You need only follow the water’s song, as I followed yours.” His bulging eyes flitted over each of them and stopped at Bofur. “What is that thing you have there? It makes such a sweet sound.”

Bofur, to his credit, did not look too shaken to be personally addressed by the Master of the Seas. “My wee fiddle, you mean? It’s awfully old now, and a bit battered besides, but it does make for a nice tune, doesn’t it, m’lord?”

“It does.” Ulmo knelt on the water’s edge, the sea hissing and roiling wherever his body touched it. “It has been so long since I’ve heard such music that I could not help but see who was making it. Elvish songs are not so merry as this.”

Bofur tugged indecisively at his mustache, glanced over at Thorin, and then grinned. “Shall I play something for you, m’lord? I’d be happy to. I always like to have a keen audience.” He made a neat bow and swept off his hat. “Bofur at your service, by the by.”

It was difficult to read the Vala’s expressions, but Thorin thought he looked rather taken aback. “I should be honoured.”

And so they settled back around their fire, if a little warily, and Bofur played The Jeweller’s Lament, a haunting, sorrowful piece that had been a favourite of his mother’s court when Thorin was young -- many nights he had been put to bed to the sound of her singing it low and sweet.

Ulmo listened with rapt, reverent attention, keeping time with the gentle swish of the waves on the sand, and when Bofur followed it with another rowdy alehouse reel, he laughed in open delight.

“Very good!” he cried, when the last note faded. “Very, very good indeed! I play my songs for Arda every day and night with the singing and sighing of the waves and the whistling winds on the surf. It has been an Age since I received music in return.” He was quiet for a moment, and there was the smallest flicker of something ageless and lonely in his bearing. “Would you be so good as to play another?”

Through a goodly portion of the night Thorin’s company made music for the Vala of the Seas. Bofur fiddled until his fingers ached and then passed his instrument on to Kíli and Fíli, who each attempted to outdo the other with stomps and reels and impromptu dances. Thorin sang a half-dozen ballads, Dís harmonizing with him in her silvery, clear voice, and even Ori was able to muster up the courage for a poem or two. Frerin accompanied them all with the small wooden flute he always kept tucked in his coat. Ulmo seemed to like the sound of the flute most of all, for he said it reminded him of the sweet southern winds in spring.

When at last they had no more breath to spare for singing, and Bofur had to pause mid-jig to yawn, Ulmo thanked them profusely for their company and showed them where the sea trickled into the beginnings of a river.

“Sister’s river crosses the whole of Aman,” he said, “and you need only keep to its banks and follow it east. Do not stray from the path, and you will find your elves soon enough.”

“Our gratitude for your help.” Thorin bowed to him, the others following suit, and the water began to ripple under Ulmo's feet as he stepped from the shore.

“One moment, pray!” Frerin called out, striding past Thorin. He held out his flute. “I would humbly ask that you accept this, my lord, that you might always remember our music.”

Ulmo was silent for a long moment before he reached out to take the tiny instrument into his mighty hands. He smiled then, and Thorin thought that perhaps his face was not so very hideous to look upon after all.

“You are kind, Master Dwarf,” he rumbled. “I will accept it, if you will accept this.” He dipped into the foam around his feet, and when he straightened, there in his palm was a delicate, pearly-pink conch shell. He offered it to Frerin. “Carry it carefully, for it holds inside it the winds from a summer tide, to use if you find yourselves in danger.”

Frerin thanked him graciously. Ulmo strode out into the sea, the water rising and bubbling around him until the tip of his forked helmet vanished below the surf.

Exhausted, the company returned to their campsite to rest until dawn, still astounded but heartened by the new purpose they had been given. They bedded down together around the embers of their fire, and soon the air was filled not with music, but with a cacophony of tired snores. Thorin took first watch, but Frerin was awake as well, lingering by the fringes of their camp and studying Ulmo’s gift. He looked perplexed, and perhaps a little lost, and Thorin felt a surge of pity rise in his breast.

“Frerin,” he murmured, and he lifted the furs at his side in a silent command.

Without a word, Frerin brought his own fur over and curled against Thorin’s side, the shell carefully tucked away into his pack. Whatever troubled him seemed to ease; after a few moments he was soundly asleep, the fingers of one hand tangled in Thorin’s coat. Thorin counted his brother’s slow breaths and listened to the gentle hiss of Dís’s snores and turned his thoughts eastward.

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

_FRODO_

 

* * *

 

 

IF NOT FOR THE nature of their quest, Frodo might have genuinely enjoyed his time on the road. He liked travelling with Gandalf, who was full of lively stories and accustomed to taking journeys with hobbits, for he always obligingly stopped for tea and second breakfast. The lands past the Gardens of Lórien were of course new and fascinating, and it seemed that Gandalf had a tale for every valley and stream and oddly-shaped rock they came across. They passed the hours with stories and walking-songs and riddles, and despite his many worries, Frodo found it pleasant to be out in the world once more.

His other companion, however, was more reserved. If Tauriel never seemed irritated by their unceasing conversation, she also rarely joined in. She kept largely to herself, scouting ahead or bringing up the rear of their party, and when they broke camp at night, she laid her blankets away from the fire, wherever the view of the road was best. Bow firmly in hand and keen eyes continuously scanning the fields and thickets around them, she walked without ever seeming to tire. Truthfully, Frodo was intimidated by her, though he could not deny that he also felt a good deal safer with her keeping watch.

They travelled quickly. Frodo could not begin to judge how far they went each day, but Gandalf assured them that they would have plenty of time to rescue the dwarves (though how exactly they would do this, he neglected to say), climb to Mount Taniquetil to seek Manwë’s help, and return to the Bay before Bilbo’s condition became dangerous.

“I know it is unpleasant to think of him being under the sway of the Ring any longer,” he had said, when Frodo had asked whether it would be faster if he sought Manwë on his own, “but I promise you that he is in no immediate danger. The trouble, after all, is the prolonging of his life, not the shortening of it.”

That was perhaps not as reassuring as the wizard intended it to be, but Frodo accepted the promise -- for all his secrecy and manipulations, Frodo trusted Gandalf as much as he loved him -- and resolved to let their journey continue as it would.

On their third day of travel, they had just finished breakfast when a beautiful white mockingbird appeared in the sky above them and fluttered down to settle on top of Gandalf’s staff.

“Ah!” the wizard exclaimed. “It is one of Elrond’s messengers. Has he news for us?” he asked it.

“I come bearing a gift from Bilbo Baggins to Frodo Baggins,” it announced in flawless Westron, ruffling its plumage self-importantly.

“I’m Frodo Baggins.” Frodo held out his hands, and the mockingbird fluttered over them and extended one of its slim legs, to which a dainty cloth package was bound with twine. Frodo gently untied it and parted the fabric, and a painful lump formed in his throat -- his uncle had sent him a handful of Belladonna’s biscuits.

“Bilbo Baggins sends a message as well.” The mockingbird cleared its throat noisily, and in a near-perfect imitation of Bilbo’s voice, it said, “‘Frodo, we shall have words about the manner of your departure when you come back, but for now, be safe and be brave.’”

Frodo bowed his head and clutched his bundle close. “Will you tell him that I’m sorry, and that I’ll return soon? Oh, and thank him for the biscuits.”

The mockingbird cheaped agreeably and then turned to Gandalf, who paused with his pipe halfway to his lips.

“And to Gandalf the White, Istari,” it said to him, “Bilbo Baggins says: ‘If Frodo returns with so much as a scratch upon his big toe, Eru himself will not be able to preserve you.’” The bird paused and swivelled its head back toward Frodo. “And you are not to share your biscuits with him.”

Gandalf frowned.

With his uncle’s blessing, Frodo’s burden felt at least somewhat lightened, and on they went. Two more days and nights passed before the landscape at last began to change from the gentle inclines and open valleys of the lowlands. The golden fields faded, eaten up by thick, gnarled tangles of old trees and cumbersome vegetation. The farther they went west, the darker and cooler and quieter it became, coming upon them so gradually that it wasn’t until they were halfway into its depths that Frodo realized they were in a forest at all.

It wasn’t like the beautiful thatch of meticulously-kept woods around the Gardens. This forest seemed utterly untouched and uncultivated, a wild mass of old plants and murmuring streams that dampened the air with musk and moss. It was lovely, in its own curious way. Gandalf seemed not the least bit concerned as the sunlight was overtaken by the leafy canopy, but Tauriel, walking behind Frodo, was as tense as a bowstring.

“What is this place?” Her voice echoed as though they stood in the grand marble hall of the White Citadel. “It feels . . . I do not know how it feels.” She stopped. “We should take another path.”

Gandalf turned to look at her impatiently. “You are not in any danger here.”

Whatever else he had intended to say was swallowed up by a ferocious growl from the road ahead of them. Creeping out of the shadows came a half-dozen sleek, monstrous masses of grey and white fur -- Frodo saw only a glimpse of a luminous yellow eye before the beasts began to run.

“Wolves!” Tauriel cried, and in an instant her bow was at her shoulder. She fired an arrow quick as lightning, but the wolves somehow evaded it, powerful hind legs pushing them out of its path.

“Behind me, Frodo,” Gandalf said, but strong hands snatched Frodo up, and his vision was obscured by a sheet of long red hair; he could do nothing but hold fast to Tauriel’s waist as she leapt up into the trees.

In a flash Gandalf was perched beside them on the thickest branch, and the wolves sprang at its trunk. Snarling and growling, their jaws snapped at the air as they clawed at the bark, leaping up so that Frodo could see their teeth, sharp as needles and dripping with glistening ropes of spittle.

“Hold on,” Tauriel commanded, and she let go of Frodo to take up her bow again. She aimed at the largest wolf, its hackles raised as it released a ghoulish howl. The arrow flew straight between the beast’s eyes and burrowed into the dirt.

The wolves vanished.

“Well,” Gandalf huffed. “How very rude!” He slid effortlessly to the ground, patting down his white robes to flick away the bits of dust and bark. “I suppose I should not be surprised. Oromë always has preferred the company of animals to Men and elves . . . .” He glanced up at Frodo, who was still clinging to the elf’s waist. “And hobbits too. It is best not to take it personally.”

Tauriel stared at Gandalf as though she suspected he had struck his head on a branch, and Frodo surprised himself with a laugh.

Gandalf smiled at him and reached up to help them down. “As I meant to say before we were so ungraciously interrupted, this is the Great Rider’s Forest, home to Oromë. He is the Huntsman, and he watches over the birds and beasts here. As you have seen, he does not always take kindly to travellers. I was not expecting him to be so direct, however. We must have caught him in a poor humour.”

Once he was safely on the grass again, Frodo took a moment to steady himself and adjust the cloak that had been torn from his shoulders during their hasty climb. Tauriel immediately went over to her arrow and prised it from the dirt.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Those were no wolves. Or rather, they _were_ wolves, once.”

Frodo froze with his clasp half-undone. “They’re . . . dead?”

“Did I not tell you that all mortal creatures must have a resting place?” Gandalf reminded him. “Their souls are not like our own, but they must have somewhere to go when their lives are spent. They are shades. They cannot hurt us, but we should take care not to disturb them in return.”

Tauriel looked ill, and Frodo closed his eyes briefly and then resumed fixing his cloak with deliberate calmness.

Deep into the heart of Oromë’s forest they went, and what had been silent and still was now rife with movement and sound: the chirps of a thousand bird-calls, rumblings and roars, scuttering feet and soft, padding paws. Yet no animals appeared. There were only flutters at the corner of Frodo’s eyes, the occasional rustle of the underbrush beside them, the spectral shadow of something scurrying along the grass. It was unnerving, but Frodo could not find it in him to be afraid. There was no menace, no ill will, no sense of danger here -- merely a long-unbroken peace, a stagnant place in which half-shadow lives were acted out eternally under the shelter of the trees.

They stopped in the early afternoon to eat and rest. Gandalf led them to a place where the canopy receded enough to allow for a small patch of sunny clearing, and he left them there with a vague assurance that he had something to do but would return at sundown. Neither Frodo nor his companion were pleased to be left behind, but Gandalf possessed a considerable talent for disappearing when an argument was imminent.

With nothing else to do, Frodo occupied himself in repacking his knapsack. The dagger Galadriel had given him was tucked into his bedroll, but with the memory of the wolves so fresh in his mind, he drew it out, deciding that it might be wiser to keep it at his belt instead. He unsheathed it curiously. The blade was slender and highly polished, with a slight curve at its end. It looked quite wicked, and even the thought of using it was enough to disturb him.

Tauriel sat beside him, and he felt something being pressed into his palm; he looked down to find that she had given him a flat grey stone. She gestured at her own long knife. “You may use it. I have already sharpened mine.”

He thanked her, and feeling the pressure to use the whetstone now that she had given it to him, he clumsily brought his blade to it. The resulting shriek of metal and rock was enough to raise the hair on his toes.

Tauriel watched him fumble, and though she smiled, it didn’t seem unkindly meant. After a few moments she leaned over to help him position it. “Have you no training?” she asked.

“Very little,” he admitted. “I have fought some with a sword, but nothing more. We don’t have much use for weapons in the Shire unless it’s for hunting.” He looked down at the knife, and thought of Sam -- Sam, with his gentle hands that were meant for rakes and shovels, not swords --  brandishing Sting to save him. Everyone always protected him.  Everyone always fought for his sake.

If he could wield this dagger, he might not feel so weak.

“Would you teach me?” he said, all in a rush, and then reddened at his own presumption.

“I could teach you,” she said simply.

The afternoon ebbed away in laborious cycles of standing and striking, blocking and falling. Tauriel proved a merciless instructor, driving her student hard, though it was obvious that she was restraining the force of her blows. Frodo ducked and wove in and out of her path. He excelled at evading her strikes but was hopeless at returning them. His arms were too short to reach her chest and neck, and she easily parried his thrusts at her long, nimble legs.

“You must not be afraid to push,” Tauriel told him, not breathless in the least. “I know you have strength. You have seen you walk swiftly and far.”

“A stroll in the Shire is not the same as a sword-fight,” Frodo said, dodging a soft tap to his side. Still, practice seemed to produce no improvement, and eventually he was obliged to call a halt. “No more,” he gasped, clutching at his side. “Please, no more for today.”

She stopped at once, planting her knife in the ground before crouching next to him where he lay sprawled on his back. “Perhaps I have been too demanding.”

He waved away the apology. “No, no, it’s good for me to learn. I’m afraid I’m just not very good at it.”

“Or perhaps I have been teaching you the wrong thing. Tell me, Master Frodo, have you ever used a bow?”

When he confirmed that he had not, she asked him if he would like to try. He agreed, and she went away for a half-hour or so, only to return with a small bow in her hands, unembellished and crudely carved. “I used one of my spare strings, so it is not of the quality I would like it to be, but it may suit you for now."

Frodo took it. It fit easily in his hands, the wood sun-warmed and rough. After several rounds of demonstration, some adjustments to the bow to suit his arm length, and some practice, Frodo was able to hit their makeshift targets with an accuracy that was equally surprising to both of them.

“Are you sure you have never shot before?” Tauriel asked again as they plucked the arrowheads from a tree-trunk.

“Quite sure. Uncle was always very good at conkers, and he was the one who taught me. Perhaps that has something to do with it?”

Tauriel looked at him over her shoulder, one slender eyebrow arched skeptically. “Conkers?”

Their archery lesson devolved into an impromptu conkers match. Tauriel was good at it -- he was not too astonished given that Legolas had excelled at the game as well, much to Gimli’s disappointment -- but Frodo, with the advantage of years of practice, won the contest handily. To reward himself for his labours, he produced a crisp red apple from his pack and sat on the grass to watch as the sky flushed the warm golden-orange of dusk. Tauriel collected her scattered arrows and the acorns they’d used for their game and then joined him.

“You’re very good at archery,” Frodo began, attempting to peel his apple in one long strand, like Sam did, and failing rather spectacularly. “But I don’t think I’ve ever met an elf who wasn’t.”

“I learned young, as is the custom for our kind,” she said. “My mother was a great archer and taught me as soon as I could hold a bow steady.”

“I’m afraid we aren’t taught anything of battle in the Shire, especially not as fauntlings. Not very sensible, but getting bitten by one of Farmer Maggot’s hounds is probably the worst thing to befall young hobbits there. My cousin Pippin was bit once, stealing pears.” Pip’s love of sweets had always triumphed over what little sense he possessed. “Is your family here in Valinor?”

She shook her head. “It was only ever my mother and I,” she said, and she resumed restringing her bow with such avid attention that Frodo was sure he had offended her. He had just opened his mouth to apologize when she added, “She is not in Valinor. She was killed on the roads of the Greenwood, and so she has passed into the Halls of Mandos. We will be parted until Arda is remade.”

It was impossible to find the correct words to respond to that, so Frodo did not try. He offered her instead a slice of apple from his knife, and they ate in companionable silence, watching the sun set and the first stars begin to rise. So absorbed was he in searching for patterns in the sky that Frodo jumped when Tauriel spoke again.

“Do hobbits have stories about the stars?”

“A few,” Frodo said. “Sam’s old Gaffer told us that a star appeared for the arrival of every hobbit, and that the brightest star in the sky on the night after your birth was your very own. The brighter it shone, the happier and longer your life. And if you and another hobbit were born under the same star, you were fated to meet.” He glanced over at her. “I know elves have many stories about stars.”

“We do. There is nothing so beautiful as watching the stars from the canopy of the Greenwood, with nothing in sight but the stretch of the sky.”

“I should have liked to see that.”

“I do not know that you could have, for the Greenwood was different in those days. We lived in the forest itself, among the trees and the open clearings.” Her eyes were full of wistful remembrance, and Frodo spared a thought to wonder if he looked the same when he spoke of the Shire. “It was a beautiful place.”

“My friend Legolas was raised in Greenwood. Did you know him?”

Tauriel smiled then, a flicker of warmth, and Frodo was glad to see it. “I ought to know him well, for I was captain of his father’s guard for over five centuries."

Legolas had not often spoken of his father. He had told them tales of his youth in the Greenwood and many legends beloved of the elves, but of his own family he had been reluctant to speak. “You must have known the king well to have served him so long,” Frodo prodded.

Something hardened in her face. “I have not seen him in a long time.”

“I . . . oh, I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean ---”

“Let us speak of it no more. I should like to hear what news you have of Legolas. He is as dear as a brother to me, and I often think of him. Last I heard he was dwelling in Gondor.”

Frodo was quick to assure her that the elf was very well indeed and had been enjoying a leisurely journey around Middle-earth when the last ship had sailed. “I think he and Gimli meant to go to Fangorn Forest next, and I’ve no doubt that they made it there if they had their hearts set on it.”

“Gimli?”

Not entirely certain how she would react, Frodo nevertheless told her about the Three Hunters. Tauriel threw back her head and laughed aloud when Frodo described Legolas and Gimli's irreverent competition, which had still been ongoing after the quest's end. She seemed extraordinarily amused by the idea of their friendship but would not say why.

When the sky deepened into the full darkness of night and Gandalf still had not appeared, they decided to make camp before the lack of light hindered them. As they gathered their things, Tauriel asked him if he would be willing to share the tale of his adventure, as she had heard only brief accounts from the other elves and was interested in hearing the true story.

The request sent a dreadful shudder through him, and the violence of his reaction frightened him. She must have seen a sudden pallor in his face, for she immediately said, “You need not tell me if it distresses you so.”

The feeling of inexplicable panic receded then, but he was left unsettled and faintly ashamed. “I don’t know why I cannot speak of it.”

“I understand,” she assured him, but there was a certain stiffness about her as they returned to camp that told him that she was a little wounded nonetheless.

 

*****************

 

Gandalf appeared as they were gathering scraps of wood for the evening fire, and Frodo did not trouble himself to hide his relief or his annoyance. “Where have you been? You said you would return by sundown!”

“The sun is down, is it not?” Gandalf plucked the bundle of branches from Frodo’s grasp and carried them over to their makeshift pit. With a murmur and a flick of his fingers, a large bonfire roared cheerily to life.

“Is it wise to draw attention to ourselves?” Frodo asked, thinking of Merry and Pippin’s cooking-fire on the hilltop. He had no desire for another encounter with the wolves tonight.

“We are perfectly safe. Oromë may be a poor host, but he would not harm a visitor to his forest. He meant to frighten us away, nothing more.” He stirred the kindling with the tip of his staff and sat down with a groan and a weary creak. Tauriel did not look reassured, but Frodo sat gladly in front of the warmth and used his dagger as an impromptu toasting fork -- he had discovered a few days before that a decent crisping vastly improved the taste of lembas.

“I was conferring with Galadriel,” Gandalf said, accepting a hot slice from Frodo with a murmur of thanks. “She has had another vision in the Gardens. The dwarves must have altered their path, for they will encounter the Firedrakes sooner than we had planned for.”

“Do you know which dwarves are in the company?” Tauriel asked, with an edge of sharpness that had Frodo glancing up at her.

“I’m afraid not -- only that Thorin is among them.” He too turned an evaluating eye upon the elf, but she lifted her chin as if challenging him to pry. He gave her a wry look and stretched out comfortably by the fire.

Bolstered by their earlier friendliness, Frodo took up his bowl of lembas toast and felt bold enough to sit next to her. “Are you well?’ he asked quietly, for she looked deeply unhappy.

She gave him a tired half-smile and lifted her eyes to sky. It took her some time to answer. “Have you never looked up at the night-sky, Frodo, and felt that the world was too small for you? I look at Elbereth’s stars, and I feel that if only I could walk among them, I might be free to roam where I please and never want for unseen places.” She folded her arms across her breasts and stared into the fire. “I left the Greenwood for Lothlórien because I could not be happy. I left Lothlórien for Valinor because I could not find happiness there either. And now I am leaving Valinor.” She shook her head. “I begin to wonder if I am of the Hollow Ones, doomed to wander forever.”

“That is a gloomy perspective to take, my dear,” said Gandalf.

Tauriel shifted a bit closer to him, and it occurred to Frodo for the first time that she might be as wary of the wizard as Frodo had been of her.

“I have found that having a home of one’s own is a rather confining notion,” Gandalf continued. “Who is to say that a hobbit or elf or Man may find more fulfillment in a life spent in one place or many? I would hardly think that a lonely life whiled away in the comfort of a home is to be preferred to a life spent travelling from one friend to another. But then I have always been a wanderer myself -- I can hardly be unbiased in these matters.”

Tauriel gave no hint as to what she thought of this, but she did accept a few slices of lembas.

“Will you tell a story, Gandalf?” Frodo asked.

Gandalf hummed thoughtfully around his pipe. “Did I ever tell you that I once travelled with Lady Nienna?”

“You know very well that you didn’t.”

The wizard harumphed. “When I was a spritely young thing, I dwelled in her realm as her . . . apprentice, I suppose you could say. I was sent to her to learn all that I could, and my time with her is a memory I have treasured all these long years.” He puffed out a ring of smoke. “I hope that we will have time to visit on our way. You would like her very much, I think.

“Now, the Lady Nienna is not often regarded as the greatest of the Valar, but for myself, I believe I learned more from her than I did from all the others together. She is the Lady of Mercy -- the Weeper, the Mistress of Mourning, the Bringer of Tears. Aulë builds his mountains and Varda fills her bright stars with light, but Nienna weeps for a fallen tree and sings a mourning song for the nest of sparrows’ eggs that fell with it. To walk with her is to remember that we all bear our sorrows, great and small.”

“When we reach the end of this forest, Frodo, there will be a river on its borders. It is her river, made of great loss. As the Valar built life under Ilúvatar’s guiding hand, so Melkor sought to tear it down. His gifts were wasted abominably in wanton destruction, and when Nienna saw what he who had once been her brother had done, she wept and wept -- out of sorrow, but also out of pity for him and what he had become. She cried, and her tears swelled and pooled until they became a mighty river that crossed Aman from one sea to the other.”

He paused then, and there was something distant in his eyes. “I have seen many things and known many beings, and through it all, I have come to realize that the most enduring power is in acts of compassion, of mercy, of shared tender sorrows. Forests fall and kingdoms crumble, but grief and love remain together, for one cannot exist without the other. And that is why I call Nienna chief among the Ainur, for she is grief, and she is love, and there exists no higher power than those.”

No one spoke when the story was finished. Tauriel drew her blankets around her and turned away without another word. Gandalf sighed, offered Frodo a sad little smile, and extinguished his pipe before settling against the nearest tree.

Frodo sat for a moment longer before crawling over to bed down beside Gandalf. He burrowed into his cloak and closed his eyes, though sleep did not find him for a long time. Despite the strength and cleverness of his companions, despite the dagger on his hip and the new bow strapped to his pack, he felt too young and too old and very, very small indeed.

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] "Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!" - "Axes of the dwarves! The dwarves are upon you!"
> 
> Again, thank you all for your kind comments -- I really do value your feedback.


	4. The Realm of the Fire-drakes

* * *

 

CHAPTER THREE _  
_

* * *

* * *

  _THORIN_

* * *

 

 

TRUE TO ULMO’S WORD, the river of Nienna trickled out from the sea and carved a winding path that was simple to follow through forest and flatland alike. Even to dwarrows, who tended to mistrust any body of water large enough to drown in, the river was a beautiful sight; it was clear as glass-crystal and tasted cool and sweet.

Its banks, lush with green grass and flowers, made for a very pleasant walkway. The distances felt shorter, and it seemed to Thorin that surely the calm swiftness of the river hastened their steps, for by the second day of travel their party had passed away from the coast entirely. They followed the river into a placid floodplain, their apparent progress bolstering their spirits mightily.

Or at least it was so for most of them. Fíli and Kíli, bringing up the rear of the procession, had been quarreling in hushed voices for the majority of the morning. Several times Thorin glanced back at the sound of a muffled exclamation only to receive two very innocent smiles. Dís seemed equally bewildered by the discord, giving Thorin a look of exasperation whenever he happened to catch her gaze.

Thorin, with a fatherly instinct born of many years of experience with their mischief, kept a wary eye on them as the company stopped for the noon meal and a brief rest. If he hadn’t, he might not have seen Kíli creep over to Frerin’s abandoned pack and pluck out Ulmo’s conch.

Later, Thorin could not recall precisely what Kíli had done, nor how exactly he had touched it. He knew only that before he could growl out a warning, the shell released a loud stream of shrieking wind under Kíli’s fingers.

“Kíli!” Frerin barked, but it was too late. Another burst of air rushed out of the conch, throwing Kíli onto his backside. Startled, he fumbled with the shell, and the whistling gave way to a howling tidal wave of wind as it broke apart in his hands.

Thorin’s feet were swept out from under him, and the next few moments were a terrifying blur of colour and sound. He regained awareness to a chorus of moans and curses and lifted his face from the dirt with a grunt.  

“Is anyone hurt?” He took a quick count of the dwarrows sprawled around him. All were present and accounted for, thank Mahal, though understandably windblown and shaken.

“Where are we?” Fíli groaned, holding his head.

“Somewhere very far away from where we were a few moments ago, presumably,” Balin said wearily.

Dís reached for her sons, patted them down efficiently to search for injuries, and then twisted her youngest’s ear with a furious snarl. “Is your skull made of molten lead? What were you thinking?”

Kíli was very pale. “I’m sorry, Amad!” he shrilled. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to look at it.”

“Well, you did a mite more than that,” Bofur observed as he helped Ori out of the bramble-bush he’d landed in.

“I told you not to do it."

“A fine use of a Vala’s gift,” Óin grumped, plucking leaves from his mustache.

Kíli flushed miserably and cast a baleful look at Frerin. “I’m sorry, Uncle.”

Frerin sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Considering the things I’ve done in my day, lad, I suppose it would be a bit much for me to be angry with you. ”

“What is done is done,” Thorin said. “The more time we linger arguing about who is to blame, the longer we’re delayed. We must find the river again.”

There were murmurs of agreement, and the company collected themselves and their things as best they could. Frerin’s and Balin’s packs had been lost in the flurry along with Ori’s water-skin and Bifur’s spear, but otherwise their losses were small.

“At least we all landed in the same place,” Balin remarked, accepting a few provisions from Thorin to tuck into his coat. “Imagine all of us scattered across Aman! We were fortunate.”

On they marched, eyes straining for a sight of the river, but everywhere they looked the grass was parched and dry, the trees grey, the thin plants shriveled. It looked as though water had hardly ever touched this ground. That supposition, unluckily, proved inaccurate. As the afternoon wore on, it began to rain hard, sending clouds of choking dust into the air. The downfall was quick and icy cold and within minutes the company became a sodden mass of drenched, unhappy dwarrows.

“Keep up the pace!” Thorin called over the pounding water. 

“We need to find shelter,” Óin returned, “or we’ll all catch our death of cold.”

Bofur laughed, and Óin shot him an indignant scowl. “Oh, you _know_ what I mean!”

Balin quickened his steps to walk beside Thorin, shivering under his heavy cloak. “I hate to say it, laddie, but Óin makes a fair point. We cannot travel in this weather. With the rain in our faces, we’d be liable to walk right past the river without seeing it.”

Reluctantly, Thorin agreed. They had to go on for a half-mile more until they found a suitable spot: a cavern burrowed into the side of a hillock. Bofur crawled in with a lantern and axe to check for any occupants, and as soon as he hollered that all was clear, they climbed gratefully inside.

It was damp and cold but mercifully drier than the open air. The walls were slick with musty water, and the air smelled strongly of iron and rust. A small tunnel extended from the entrance chamber, stretching back into the dark, and the company filed out toward it. Bofur, perched at the opening to the tunnel with his lantern aloft, however, did not seem inclined to budge, and he startled when Thorin called to him.

He turned around, his eyes wide. “Pardon, pardon -- but maybe we ought to stay in the outer room right here, aye? I can’t say that I care for the feel of this place.”

“It isn’t large enough for all of us,” Dís said impatiently, wringing out her dripping braids. “And we wouldn’t be protected with an entrance so easily accessible. If we’re going to bed down here, we’d do better to find a more enclosed area.”

“I don’t care if we have to fight an army of goblins down there,” Fíli grunted, “if it means we can get dry.”

There were rumbles from the company, and into the tunnel they went, their weapons at the ready. Thorin paused next to Bofur, who lingered near the entrance with a pinched brow.

“What sort of feeling?” Thorin asked quietly.

“It sounds mighty silly, I know. But mining folk get a sense for these things, buried down in stone all day -- we learn good rock and bad rock, and which is which. And this is very bad rock.”

“We won’t linger,” Thorin assured him. “We’ll stay only until the rain stops and then be on our way. I will stand first guard myself.”

Bofur nodded and jammed his hat down a little tighter before following Thorin into the tunnel.

 

*****

 

Awareness came back to Thorin slowly. It took more than a moment for the dizziness to abate, and when he finally wrested open his eyes, it was to find himself alone, staring up at the high, vaulted ceiling of Erebor’s great treasury room.

“Fíli, Kíli!” he cried, sitting up and twisting round in alarm. “Balin? Dís!” But no voice answered, no sound but the echoes of his own shouts filtered back to him. He cautiously rolled onto his knees, relieved to find his sword still sheathed snugly in his belt, and surveyed the chamber.

No, his eyes had not led him false -- this was Erebor, down to the faded gilt-paint upon the stone columns. Bewildered, he came to his feet and took a few steps, loose trinkets shifting under his boots, before coming to a tense halt. A massive pile of white-bleached bones, dry as dust, lay at the end of the chamber atop a tremendous mound of gold coins. The sheer scale of the gaping ribcage and the length of the tail made it impossible to suppose that it could be anything but the skeleton of a dragon.

Taking a steadying breath, Thorin tore his eyes away from the gruesome sight. This had to be a fever-dream, some madness brought on by the wind, or perhaps a noxious fume in the cavern. Still, the uncut jewels and precious metals under his feet seemed real enough, gleaming in marvelous tones, and he picked up a single coin bearing the mark of Thrór.

It felt real, a familiar weight in his palm. As he held it, it seemed to warm against his skin, humming with a voice of its own and whispering sweet promises. He dropped it as if it had scorched his hand and retreated to the tall door at the hall’s end.

The entrance was sealed. No matter how he pushed or pulled at it, the wood did not give. Fear curdled in his belly, and he pounded angrily upon the door. “Release me,” he demanded. “Let me out!”

The sound of cascading metal drew his wary eye reluctantly back to the treasure hoard. At the other end of the chamber, the skeleton was stirring.

Bones rattled and trembled, skittering across the coins to fuse together. The empty skull rose, teetering on its corded neck, and leathery, blood-flushed skin began to wrap round the bones, sinews and muscle intertwining to take an all-too familiar shape, even as Thorin watched in astonishment. The spectral fire-drake bowed its neck to fix an eerie lantern-like eye upon him, and this fragment of a nightmare became flesh --  the great serpentine neck, the glittering scales, the jagged spikes wreathing its sly, fearsome head -- no, it _was_ Smaug, and no other.

The horror that consumed Thorin’s heart in that moment was altogether beyond words.

“Well met, King Under the Mountain,” said the dragon, its sagging jaws peeled back in a mockery of a smile.

“No.” Thorin’s hand flew to his sword, and he hefted it warningly before him. “No. You were slain by the Bowman, and you lie mouldering in the lake. You are dead. This is a cowardly trick!”

“You are dead, Dwarf, pierced by an orcish blade And yet here we are.”

“I will not hear your lies,” Thorin said. “You will let me go at once.”

The dragon seemed not to hear him. With his cold eyes burning upon Thorin, he lowered himself onto the coins and stretched out in a mockery of ease. “Well, well,” he sighed, something almost indulgent in his silken voice. “Isn’t this extraordinary? The little king leaves the safety of his Maker’s palace to wander where he should not go.”

“Open the door.”

“But what could have spurred him on a fool’s errand?” Smaug mused. His tip of his cunning tail slithered down the mound of gold and flicked around Thorin’s feet. “Ah! Of course -- the _halfling_.”

"Open the door!”

“You are not in any position to be making demands of me in my own domain, o King. And such a violent temper! I had forgotten what a churlish creature you are.” He dug his claws into the gold and let the coins sift through them, clinking musically as they fell. “Does my treasure make you uncomfortable, Dwarf? You quite seemed to like it, last we met.”

“It was not your treasure,” Thorin growled. “And I want nothing of it. Free me, and you can rot here in your jewels undisturbed.”

Smaug blinked lazily. “Deny your lust all you like, though it convinces no one. But then I suppose you have had much practice pretending not to covet what you most desire. You cannot hide it from me. This is yet another attempt to satiate the greed that flows so freely in the blood of your line. There was once something you desired even above gold.”

Thorin’s hands shook on his sword, but he did not lower it. “You are false, and I will not listen!”

“When did that fire of wanting first kindle in you, I wonder? In the shape-changer’s garden? The halfling was a queer-looking thing, with his furry toes and beardless chin, but how _pleasing_ he seemed to you then, with the sunlight on his face. It was difficult for you not to look after that.”

“How do you know this?” Thorin barked. “Who told you?”

Smaug tossed back his head with a coughing roar of laughter that seemed to shake the pillars to their crumbling roots. “Why _you_ did, O mighty King. Poor, poor little dwarf, so unlucky in life, so unlucky in love!”

Thorin snarled and lashed out with a furious strike at the dragon's creeping tail. Smaug evaded the blow easily. “How the truth stings you! No doubt your regrets are many, for a life so pitifully spent.”

“My only regret is that I did not fire the arrow that stopped your poison.” Thorin swung out again fiercely, but Smaug only laughed again.

“Bold words indeed! What do you expect to do, little king? What can you do now for your halfling? You could not even keep your own crown.” He slunk to his feet and his wings unfurled, fluttering like banners of war.  “How could you have imagined that you could keep him? He was too good for your grasping ways, so soft and pampered and yet so very clever.” For a moment, the dragon almost looked irritated, as though remembering full well how clever Bilbo had been. His cavernous mouth twisted in disgust. “Not clever enough, by far, to carry such power in his fat little hands, with no knowledge of how to use it, no ambition to milk its full potential. What a terrible waste. Perhaps you were well-suited after all.”

“You could not hope to amass an ounce of his strength or courage if you lived for ten thousand years,” Thorin cried, careless with rage and hatred. “I almost wish you could have found that thrice-bedamned Ring, that your greed would have made you a slave to it!”

Smaug's tail whipped out and caught Thorin up by the waist, lashing his arms to his sides and hoisting him into the air. His sword clattered to the floor. “Miserable, crawling rat!” the dragon spit, shaking him like a leaf as he struggled. “I am a slave to nothing! _Nothing!”_

As abruptly as it had surfaced, his temper seemed to melt away. He puffed out a rasping chortle, his tail squeezing tighter, and Thorin choked on his own breath. “Oh, you thought your lungs should burst from keeping those words held back! How you longed to ask him if he would stay with you when your mountain was won. For he was the finest prize of all: a soft little hobbit to warm your kingly bed. But you would not ask, for you knew what he would say. You knew that he would turn away from you in confusion and distaste, that he would reject you kindly, and shatter you.

“What would the halfling want with Thorin Oakenshield, King of nothing? A dwarf past his prime -- no great claim to beauty,” the dragon sneered, “nor wit nor pretty manners, with a greedy soul that knows little of love and even less of tenderness. You would bathe him in your riches, but you would not know how to say a single fond word to him. You and your mountain of gold would crush him, steal away his soul of green grass and sunlight, until his heart became as cold and unfeeling as yours.”

“You are false,” Thorin gasped.

“How passionate and tender your love, as you held him over the wall, wishing with every part of your being to see his body broken on the rocks below --”

“Stop!”

“ _Murderer_ ,” Smaug sang out, his eyes aflame. “Kinslayer! Oath-breaker!”

Thorin fought and clawed and kicked at the scaled flesh, but it only seemed to draw tighter until his breath stopped altogether. _I cannot die again_ , he thought wildly, and almost felt like laughing. And yet, it was so very much like dying, his body begging for a draught of air, and his fingers falling limp and useless against his thighs. His vision began to blur.

Smaug let out a shriek, and Thorin fell. For several moments he could not move, lying with his face turned against the gold and sucking musty air gratefully into his lungs. His sight focused, his hearing returned, and he rolled onto his side with some difficulty. Under the fall of his hair he could see Smaug clawing in a panic at his own head. He thrashed in agony, and Thorin caught a glimpse of the shaft of an arrow, driven straight into the center of one massive eye.

There was a blur of movement beside him. When he turned to look, his only thought, half-hysterical, was that he had somehow, against all reason, been killed once more -- it was surely the only explanation for what he was seeing.

For there, clutching Thorin’s sword in determined little hands, was a hobbit.

 

* * *

* * *

_FRODO_

* * *

 

 

The sudden, violent gust of wind that thrust icy skewers into Frodo’s cloak forced out a shiver from the tips of his ears to his toes. At his side, Gandalf, between one breath of pipeweed and the next, reared back and began to cough.

Tauriel immediately produced her water-skin, but the wizard waved her away. “Father of All, have mercy on us,” he groused, and gathered up his robes in one hand. “Hurry, hurry! We haven’t much time.”

Frodo and Tauriel exchanged a baffled glance before hastening after him. As they left the calm banks of the river behind and ventured deeper into the flat plains, the pace quickened to such a degree that Frodo, with his stout legs, was nearly sprinting to keep up. Tauriel, in no apparent distress, measured her steps to stay at his side; he wasn’t entirely certain whether he ought to be grateful or irritated.

“Gandalf, what is it?” he cried at last, breathless. If they must run, then they must, but he would rather like to know _why_. “What’s happened?”

“Dwarves happened,” Gandalf declared, and did not slow. “Remind me to box young Kíli’s ears when we reach them -- I am far too old to be running hither and thither, and rest assured I fully intend to impress that fact upon him!”

Tauriel faltered, stumbling with unusual gracelessness, and then her strides seemed to lengthen with renewed vigour.

On they ran. The rich greenery by the river bled slowly away until the land was brown and caked with dust, the earth so dreadfully parched that it cracked into rough shards under Frodo’s feet. So consumed was he by the pulse of his own footsteps and the dry burn in his lungs that he nearly plowed into the elf’s back when they came to a sudden halt.

Gandalf was poking a barren cliff-side with his staff, mumbling to himself, and when he drew away, a rough hole gaped in the stone. He tugged the brim of his hat down, hiked his robes up, and climbed into the opening, ducking his head and vanishing from sight.

“Come along,” his voice called back to them. “Hurry, now!”

Frodo glanced over at Tauriel, who frowned and then crouched to step through the hole with visible reluctance. Frodo patted the dagger at his side to reassure himself and crept through after her.

Inside was a dank, musty hollow, lit only by the steady glow of Gandalf’s staff. “This way,” he said, and led them down some manner of tunnel, so small that Frodo was the only one who could walk through it without unpleasant contortions. The air was appallingly humid, and the heat grew more oppressive the farther they went. Frodo’s toes sank into something on the rock floor, and he couldn’t contain a soft groan of revulsion as his foot pulled away with a wet little _slop_.

“I thought hobbits lived in the ground,” Tauriel murmured, her hands pressed flat against each wall to keep her balance.

“Hobbit holes are not like _this_.”

“Quiet,” Gandalf said.

The heat and damp worsened until each step was a chore and Frodo began to grow dizzy. He blinked once to clear the sweat from his eyes. When he opened them again, he let out a cry of horror, for he was standing on the crumbling walkway of Mount Doom.

The air billowed up hot and red, the stone scorching his soles as he gaped in mute terror at the churning pit of fire below him. The empty socket of his finger ached and burned; he swore he could feel the dragging weight of the Ring encircling it.

“Gandalf!” he screamed, and his friend’s voice filled his ears.

“Take my hand -- it is right next to you. What you see is not real. Both of you, come here. Take my hands, come. Do you feel the warmth of my skin? Can you feel how I squeeze your fingers? That is real. But the fires, the mountain, the remains of the town -- they are not real. They are false visions, and they cannot harm you. But you must focus now for them to pass away. Listen to my voice, and hold tight.”

Frodo held on with all his might. Slowly, gradually, the heat drained away, the red light lowered, the phantom tightness around his finger eased and then vanished. The dripping, dark walls of the tunnel returned. He clung to Gandalf’s hand, and bent over to clear the faintness from his head.

Tauriel, gripping Gandalf’s other hand with white knuckles, was the sickly colour of ash. “I saw Lake-town afire,” she breathed. “Everything was flame, everything was lost. How?”

“Fire-drakes,” Gandalf said. “They are cunning creatures, with a talent for planting unpleasant doubts in one’s heads. It is best not to disturb them here in their resting place, for they weave illusions as easily in death as they did in life.” He gently tugged his hands away and took his staff up from the floor. “It is difficult to fight a glamour, when it has been cast -- you both did very well. But I fear our friends were ensnared in the same manner, with no one to free them. We must hurry.”

It took only a few moments to come across the first of Thorin’s company. Around the next bend, a dwarf lay fallen on the stone, a lantern smashed nearby with its light still flickering faintly. Gandalf hastened over, and the orb in his staff flared.

“Dís, daughter of Thráin,,” he said sternly, “wake this instant. Cast the dark shadow from your mind. Wake!” He followed these words with a fluid string of Quenya, and the dwarf’s eyes opened. She gasped and choked, and her hands flew to her throat.

“There now,” Gandalf soothed, helping her turn onto her side. “You are safe.”

She pushed coils of dark hair from her face and stared at him in a blank bewilderment that swiftly melted into recognition. “My sons,” she rasped. “My brothers . . . .”

“We will find them. Sit here for a moment to regain your strength.”

Tauriel discovered two more dwarves lying a few paces away, half-concealed in the shadows. It took considerably longer to wake them, and Gandalf began to look worried.

“Go,” he said. “The tunnels are short, and we will find the others sooner if we each take a different path. Make haste -- the longer they linger under the dragons’ glamours, the harder it becomes to pull them from it. Scream, shout, sing, do whatever you must, but try not to touch them, or you may be pulled into their vision as well.” He handed the cracked lantern to Frodo. “And if you do end up in another vision, remember that you are in control of what you are seeing. How the dream unfolds is entirely up to you. The fire-drakes can only conjure a memory; they cannot control what happens within it. Go now!”

Tauriel’s hurried footsteps soon faded away, and Frodo ventured down further into the dark until he reached a forked split in his tunnel. On instinct, he took the left path and rounded the corner into a large alcove.

Another dwarf lay curled up there, twitching and crying out hoarsely, clearly caught in the throes of some dreadful vision. Frodo flew to his side, and saw he looked very poorly indeed -- his breath was laboured, his trimmed beard glossy with sweat and his silver-threaded hair plastered in knots across his grimacing brow.

Frodo shouted and pleaded and banged his own fist painfully on the rock, but nothing seemed to rouse the dwarf. There was nothing else for it! Frodo took hold of him, his small fingers swallowed up by the dwarf’s large, rough hand. His head spun, and then he was kneeling amidst a pile of treasure, gold piled high like the sands far to the East. The cavern was now a vast, lofty chamber of stone, but Frodo had no attention to spare for the beautiful arches or mounds of jewelled trinkets.

A dragon stalked across the chamber, its spiked wings stretched nearly as wide as the hall itself, and its great bulk rattling the floor with every agitated step. Frodo stared at it in numb awe -- no storybook could do justice to its sheer size, to the terrible beauty of its glittering underbelly, to the cold wickedness of its flaming eyes.

 _Oh, Bilbo,_  he thought wildly. _How frightened you must have been!_

The dragon bellowed as it turned, and there, trapped in the coils of its enormous tail, was a tiny, thrashing body -- even as Frodo watched, the dwarf’s desperate struggles slowed and then ceased altogether. With an angry exclamation, Frodo reached for his bow. Swiftly he brought it to his shoulder. He imagined piercing the monster’s cruel eye, drew back the string, and let loose one single arrow.

It met its mark faithfully. The dragon screamed a billow of flame at the high ceiling and promptly dropped its prize.

Galadriel’s dagger surely could never pierce such tough hide; Frodo cast about and saw a long sword lying nearby, and he snatched it up. The dragon threw itself onto its throne of coins, wings flapping frantically as it rolled about, trying to pull the shaft from its eye. Frodo watched it warily, sword upraised, but its belly was crusted with so many hard scales, and he didn’t know where to strike. He could hear the dwarf stirring behind him and turned long enough to say in a panic, “It’s wounded! What do I do?”

The dwarf staggered upright and braced himself with great effort. “The sword -- give it to me,” he shouted, and Frodo scrambled to obey.

Though he wavered on his feet, the dwarf heaved the blade up high as soon as it was in his hands. With an inarticulate cry of fury, he charged toward the writhing dragon, climbed its nearest leg in short bounds, and thrust the sword into a tiny puncture in the armoured scales of its breast. It bellowed, flames spiralling in a panic from its throat, and crumbled to dust.

Nothing remained but a handful of scales scattered amongst the gold.

The dwarf stood for a moment, swaying drunkenly, before dropping down to his knees to pick up one of the scales. It glimmered with a light brighter than diamond, and the dwarf tossed it away and bent his head, breathing hard.

Frodo scurried up the mound after him, slipping a bit on loose coins. The room whirled and shifted until he was on the damp cavern floor once more, treasure and tall stone pillars and scales vanished into thin air. He wobbled over to his companion. “Are you hurt, Master Dwarf?”

The dwarf stared at him, his dazed blue eyes darting from Frodo’s ears to his feet and then back again before meeting his gaze. “You are real,” he said slowly, as if expecting a demurral.

“Well, yes,” Frodo replied, a little awkwardly.

A strange look passed over the dwarf’s face, but he gathered himself and rose. Once he was firmly planted on his feet once more, he bowed his head gravely. “My thanks, Master Hobbit. Thorin, son of Thráin, at your service.”

So _this_ was Thorin Oakenshield! Frodo supposed he was not too dreadfully surprised, as the dwarf, even disheveled and bathed in sweat, had something regal in his bearing. He did look younger than Frodo had been led to expect -- and his beard certainly wasn’t long enough to tuck into his belt! -- but nonetheless it was quite thrilling to meet a member of Bilbo’s old Company. Remembering his manners, Frodo bobbed a bow of his own. “Frodo Baggins, at yours.”

Thorin’s eyes widened.

“Frodo? Oh, there you are, gracious.” The call startled them both, but the sight of Gandalf peering around the rock-bend was an instant relief. Frodo beamed at him.

Thorin now seemed utterly confounded. “Gandalf?”

“Yes, yes, lovely to see you again too, a pleasure,” Gandalf said, ushering them swiftly back into the tunnel with a firm hand. “Greetings and well-wishes may wait, and you have leave to ask all the questions you choose once we are freed of this foul magic.”

“My kin,” Thorin rasped. “Are they --?”

“They are quite well, I assure you. Come!”

Never had Frodo been so glad to see sunlight and fill his lungs with fresh air as he was when they finally emerged from the tunnel. A half-dozen dwarves were clustered about the entrance, and they surged forward as one.

“Thank Mahal you’re safe,” said the first dwarf to reach them, and he gripped Thorin’s shoulders as though to reassure himself that they were not mere illusions. He noticed Frodo then, and the smile beneath his snowy-white beard shifted into a look of astonishment. “Why, it’s Bilbo’s wee laddie!”

A cry rose up among the dwarves, and Frodo was swarmed by stout, be-furred bodies, shouting words of welcome and smothering him in rough embraces. Gandalf laughed heartily when Frodo spit a stray braid from his mouth and then thrust his staff into the huddle of dwarves so that he might make his escape. His eye was caught again by the dwarf who had first recognized him, and, still quite flustered, he blurted, “I know you!”

The old dwarf beamed. “And I know you, though you were a very little fellow when last I came visiting your uncle. Balin, at your service.”

“Do you know me too, Frodo?” another dwarf asked.

“I . . . I think I’ve seen your hat? Or something like it.”

The dwarves laughed uproariously at that. Frodo felt himself redden, though the one with the curious hat seemed amused rather than offended. “Aye, it’s more memorable than my pretty face. Bofur’s the name, dear Baggins.”

There were a chorus of introductions after that. They were all familiar. Tales of Bilbo’s adventure to Erebor had once been Frodo’s favourite bedtime stories, and he almost felt that he might have been able to pair names with dwarves without help, for they were nearly just as he had imagined them as a fauntling. The only ones not known to him at all were Thorin’s brother, a merry dwarf with a long, braided beard, and his sister Dís, who smiled at Frodo warmly.

He bowed when they were done. “Frodo Baggins, at your service.”

“We all know your name,” the one called Óin boomed. “How could we not after hearing so many stories of you? What a brave lad, and a true Baggins!”

There were rumbles of agreement, and Frodo’s ears positively burned. It was a relief when the party’s attention was diverted by a commotion as a rather wild-looking dwarf and Tauriel abruptly appeared from the cavern.

The young, scruffy dwarf -- Kíli, Frodo thought -- let out a loud shout. “Tauriel!” He shoved past his brother in a blur of unkempt hair and leather to throw his arms about the elf’s waist. That was astonishing enough, but then Tauriel -- implacable Tauriel! -- tangled one hand in his hair and looked as though she might weep.

Gandalf cleared his throat loudly. “Tauriel, perhaps you would be so kind as to scout ahead for a camp? I do not believe we shall get much farther today, and we should all feel better for a good rest.”

With remarkable speed the elf vanished into the sparse trees, Kíli clinging tight to her hand.

There was something of a stunned silence left in their wake, and Frodo bit his lip against a swell of ill-timed laughter at the collection of sour faces around him. Balin coughed delicately and clapped Frodo on the shoulder. “Now laddie, what brings you here, hmm? Not that we’re not very grateful for the rescue, mind you.”

“Perhaps we ought to be asking you as well,” Gandalf said dryly.

Bofur doffed his hat and shrugged. “Thorin heard that our burglar had gotten himself in a wee spot of trouble, so we packed up and off we went!” He nudged the wizard. “Though I’d bet ore-to-gold that you knew that already.”

Gandalf cast a discerning gaze at the circle of dwarves and frowned. “You look as though your journey has not been half so pleasant as ours. I can lead you safely back to Aulë before we go on.”

There was an instant outcry. Thorin, who had been standing back from the company, silent, spoke then, and the others hushed immediately. “Do the elves have no hope for him?”

“They sent us,” Frodo answered. “We’re going to Lord Manwë to ask for his help on Bilbo’s behalf.”

Gandalf hummed thoughtfully. “If you are determined to go on, Thorin, you may as well travel with us.” Though his words were sensible, he wore a peculiar look, one that Frodo happened to know very well. It was the look Gandalf always had when he had weighed all the odds and decided that the outcome was going to amuse him.

“Then it is resolved,” Thorin said gravely, and his gaze caught Frodo’s for a breath before flitting away. “We shall go together.”

 

* * *

 

 


	5. The Halls of Mandos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for disturbing imagery involving child death.

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

CHAPTER FOUR

* * *

  _THORIN_

* * *

 

 

IT BECAME APPARENT to the Company that they would travel no further that day. The sun had set, and as they were still somewhat overcome by their visions in the cavern, a rest and hot food would do more than a measure of good. Though he was impatient to continue, Thorin conceded readily enough to Gandalf’s suggestion that they break camp and start afresh in the morning.

Kíli and the she-elf returned with news that there was a meadow hemmed protectively by cliffs that would suit well for a camp. It was distant enough from the cavern to be safe, yet not so far that they would have to walk in the deepening dark. Their party plodded sluggishly along, and Thorin was too weary to take umbrage at the perturbing sight of the elf walking so closely to his sister-son that their sides brushed with every step.

Frerin was clinging to Thorin’s heels nearly as fiercely. After the third time he almost pitched over his brother’s boots, Thorin turned to dismiss him, his patience worn thin by the day’s misfortunes. When he beheld his shadow properly, however, his ire ebbed away; Frerin looked as though he’d been shut in a pen with Dáin’s most hellish battle-boar.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

“No!” Frerin fell back a few paces, his face pinched.

“Do not lie to me.”

His brother sounded the loud sigh of one truly put-upon, but he spoke willingly enough. “What did you see?”

Thorin winced despite himself. “Things that I would prefer not to speak of.”

“I saw Azanulbizar,” Frerin murmured, so softly that Thorin strained to hear him. “I was on the field again, and I saw them fall.” A shiver crawled visibly across his shoulders, but he met Thorin’s eyes with no shame. “You and Dís too. And Amad. The lads. All of you were gone, and I was alone.”

“It was a cruel vision, nothing more."

The huff of breath he received in response might have been a chuckle, but there was no smile on Frerin’s face when he said, “I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“I don’t know. For leaving you alone, I suppose.”

On impulse, Thorin seized his brother’s hand. “I am not alone now, am I?”

This seemed to ease Frerin’s agitation. Thorin could admit to himself that there was solace to be found in the familiarity of walking as they once had, when Thorin’s footsteps were followed by Frerin’s and a tiny, often sugar-sticky hand had been all but permanently attached to his.

“Brother?”

“What?"

“Are all halflings so small? I thought it was only an old dam’s tale, like how Men believe there are no dwarf women.”

Very reluctantly, Thorin’s eyes were drawn to the little figure trotting along beside Gandalf, the top of his dark, curly head not even brushing the wizard’s elbow. “I have not known many halflings."

In truth he too had been taken aback by how frail the hobbit was, once he had recovered himself enough to properly study his saviour. Bilbo had been no taller, surely, but he had always been hale and sturdy and comfortably stout. Young Frodo, however, was wan and wide-eyed, with childish features so delicate as to be almost elvish. Had Thorin not know better, he would have scoffed at the notion of such a creature vanquishing one of the greatest evils to ever threaten Middle-earth. But if Thorin had learned anything from their burglar, it was that the spirit of hobbits was not proportionate to their stature.

“He seems a good-natured sort." Frerin brightened then, tugging his hand from Thorin’s. “Do you think he’s met the Elf-Witch of Lothlórien? She’s in so many of Ori’s tales, and he says she’s old as death itself. Imagine meeting her!”

“How should I know?” Thorin grunted. “Go and ask him yourself if you’re so keen to hear about elves.”

With that, Frerin loped to the front of their party, visibly startling the poor halfling when he popped up beside him.

Thorin shook his head and resolutely looked away.

The clearing under the rock-shelf proved dry and well-fortified by the cliffs, and with the aid of a few withered branches, Gandalf soon had a bonfire crackling cheerily in its centre. The Company made themselves comfortable, pooling together scraps and crumbs from their stores for a more extravagant pot of stew to celebrate their lucky escape.

Thorin made a few rounds through the camp, relieved to see that a safe shelter and the prospect of a hearty meal had restored some gaiety to them all. Conversation flowed freely as they settled their packs, attended to their weapons, and began to spread their bedrolls, and Fíli was even pestering Bofur for a song or two once the meal was done.

The only blemishes to sour Thorin’s peace of mind were the suspicious presence of the elf, who was addressing Gandalf in lowered tones, and the sight of the halfling loitering uneasily by the tight circle of bodies clustered around the fire.

Balin seemed to notice him nearly at the same moment Thorin did, and he ushered the halfling to a choice seat. The Company welcomed him amiably, pressing him for news of Middle-earth and speaking over each other in their eagerness to acquaint themselves with him. As Frodo spoke, haltingly and then with more confidence, Thorin found himself accounting for each small gesture, each turn of phrase, each subtle mannerism that spoke of Bilbo’s influence. The young Baggins seemed softer than his uncle, more earnest, less forthright, and truthfully did not much resemble him, but there was enough of a likeness to make it difficult for Thorin to look at him long. When it became too much to bear, he abandoned the merriment of their camp and retreated out into the open air.

The night was tranquil, the stars unclouded enough to provide sufficient light without a lantern. He found a flat-topped boulder that made for an adequate seat and set to cleaning his weapons. There were no bloodstains, no hint that his sword had been used hours before to pierce a fire-drake’s heart, but Thorin would take no chances. He refused to carry anything of that foul beast with him. He scoured and oiled and buffed the metal until it shone silver, but no amount of polishing could cleanse the purr of Smaug’s voice from his ears. With a rather black humour, he decided that perhaps this blade had earned itself a name at last -- Dragonsbane would serve as a reminder, both of its mightiest deed and the wyrm’s persistent intrusion into his life.

Light footsteps scuffed the grass. His fist tensed reflexively on the hilt, but a moment later Gandalf emerged from the brush. Thorin inclined his head to him in voiceless acknowledgment. Without so much as a by-your-leave, Gandalf perched beside him and patted down his cloak absently before producing his long-stemmed pipe from within its folds. It pricked Thorin with something akin to nostalgia to see it in his hands once more.

“It has been a long time, Thorin."

Thorin regarded him long enough to say, “I thank you for saving my kinsmen,” and returned his attention to his work.

“So formal? We parted on fraught terms, I grant you, but I am glad to see you again nevertheless.”

“I bear no grudge toward you if that’s what you’re asking."

Gandalf was quiet for a spell, puffing away diligently, and a film of marbled blue-grey smoke began to rise with the wind. “I believe you may labouring under a misapprehension."

"Is that so?"

"Shall I tell you of Erebor as it is now?"

"Save your breath."

"I thought that might be the case. Our last meeting did not mark a failure. To have you think that your last act was not worth---"

“It was _not_ ,” Thorin interrupted. A fierce anger flared in his gut -- an anger that always seemed to simmer in him now, seeking release wherever it could. “Nothing could be worth such a price. My kin, my honour, my ---” He stuttered to a halt and screwed his eyes shut against the look of pity the wizard no doubt wore.

“If you had not gone, Erebor would never have been reclaimed. The East would have crumbled under the forces of Mordor if the three kingdoms had not been there to stand against them together. The Ring would never have come into Bilbo’s safekeeping; likely it would have been taken by Sauron before we even knew his full strength had been recovered. Middle-earth would have fallen.”

“You cannot know that.”

“No,” Gandalf said. “And no one will ever know, given that it did not come to pass.”

Thorin dropped his gaze to the sword lying across his thighs, its bright steel polished to a glow under the moon’s light; he rubbed a thumb against the runes of protection. “Did you give me my father’s key, knowing that I would fail?”

For an eternal moment, Gandalf was still. Nothing passed between them but spindly plumes of smoke. “You did not fail,” the wizard said at last, heavily. “Did I know that the line of Durin would perish? No, I did not. Did I know that the Lonely Mountain would be won, or Smaug slain? No. But I hoped.”

“Your faith was misplaced,” Thorin said bitterly.

“I asked far too much, expecting you to overcome what all your forefathers could not. My thoughts were so fixated upon how the days hence might develop, on how events would unfold, that I did not devote enough attention to the happenings of the present.” Gandalf lowered his pipe and cradled it in his palms, its light casting pale shadows on his cloak.  “Great knowledge, I regret to say, does not always produce an equal share of wisdom. My poor brother Saruman was proof enough of that.” He peered at Thorin beneath careworn brows. “I was not there to help you when you most desperately needed my help. For that I am sorry.”

“Pray don’t mention it,” Thorin said gruffly, for lack of anything better to say.

From beyond the brush, a strain of a melody reached their ears -- it seemed Fíli had won his way. Bofur’s voice mingled with his fiddle in an old forge-song, meant for keeping the rhythm of hammer-strokes steady. Gandalf sang along for several verses, and then, very suddenly, turned to pin Thorin with a piercing look. “You are as hard-headed and haughty as your grandfather, with none of your mother’s graces nor your father’s reconciling temper. Yet you would have been a good king, Thorin Oakenshield. Your strength would have served your people well.”

Thorin’s eyes burned. “You cannot know that either.”

“That is one thing of which I have no doubt.”

The air seemed to settle between them, and Thorin accepted the offered pipe for a quick draught of the oddly spiced leaf. A gale of laughter filtered through the trees, a high, unfamiliar voice fluting above it all. The wizard’s smile widened. “I am glad to see your company welcome Frodo so heartily. This has not been an easy task for him, and good friends will lighten his burden.” He blew one last frothy ring and then neatly extinguished his pipe. “He is afraid. And I am afraid for him.”

“Is he in danger?”

“No,” Gandalf said, and his amusement seemed to turn inward. “But he is only a very little fellow.”

“Any of us would protect him with our last measure of strength.” For himself it was an earnest oath. This was Bilbo’s child, and Thorin would deny his place in his Maker’s Halls before he let him come to harm.

“I know.”

Gandalf had always valued directness (even above politeness), and so Thorin plainly asked the question that had been troubling him all evening. “How came he to Valinor? Dís had understood that he survived the War.”

“He was not killed,” Gandalf confirmed. “Sometimes a wounded spirit cannot be healed.”

“He left of his own will?”

“He could not stay in Middle-earth. To bear such evil so close to his heart. . . . He made the only choice he could, under such circumstances. The chief Eldar granted him passage and permission to dwell in Valinor until his life is spent. He is young; it will not be for many years.”

“Can he not return?”

“Crossing the Sea is as final an act as death itself. He cannot go back.”

“Then I am sorry for him,” Thorin murmured.

“As am I, I assure you. It was not how I wished to see his life unfold, but I must respect his choices -- they speak of a wisdom far beyond his years.” He paused and smiled ruefully. “And mine, apparently.”

The forge-song ended, and after a moment’s lull, Dís’s voice rose in the night-air. Thorin recognized the tune before the first line was through: a cradle song, penned by their mother after Thorin’s birth and sung to each of them until they grew old enough to sleep apart from their parents. Even now, so far removed from the royal keep of Erebor, the song carried with it the softness of Freís’s touch, the bristled brush of his father’s beard against his forehead, the warm, sleeping weight of three small dwarflings, tumbled together like tired pups in their bed. It soothed another knot of tension from Thorin’s heart, dispersing the cruel taunts of the dragon that lingered there.  

They were mute until the song ended, and Gandalf hummed appreciatively. “Lovely. Dís’s voice reminds me very much of your great-great-aunt Môir’s. She had a singing voice likened to silver bells by more than one poet, and she sang the crowning song for Thrór’s grand coronation. If I recall correctly, she received twenty-two-and-a-half offers of marriage when the ceremony was done.”

Thorin snorted.

“Music runs deep in dwarvish veins, I’ve found,” Gandalf mused. “Your line has something of a particular talent for it.”

“Most of us. Adad croaks like a toad.”

Thorin could not say which of them was more startled by that pronouncement; Gandalf tipped his head back and laughed aloud.

“You shall have to ask Frodo to sing one of these nights. He has a good ear for song.” He knocked his cooling pipe against the stone to empty it and swabbed the bowl clean with his robe, indifferent to the ashy streaks it left on the white cloth. “You have not asked me about Bilbo, Thorin.”

“The air grows cold,” Thorin said, and he began to gather his things about him. “We ought to return to the fire.”

“It would be the sensible thing to do,” Gandalf said agreeably, but he gave no indication of stirring from his seat, and Thorin turned to go. As he stepped into the warm ring of light around the fire, he heard a faint murmur behind him:

“But when have you ever done the sensible thing?”

 

******

 

Thorin passed a restless night, and it was not yet dawn when he woke. More sleep was a fruitless wish, and so he rose quietly. He might as well be useful if he could not be well-rested.

Of their party, only Dís was awake, readying the stew-pot for breakfast. The fire was already kindled and the pot sloshed with fresh water to be boiled. Thorin wondered whether she had slept at all. Slinging on his overcoat and belt, he went over to help. Wordlessly she handed him a knife and a chunk of dried venison, and he knelt beside her to carve it into thin slivers while she sifted oats. They worked with easy efficiency, and soon enough the water was hot enough to soften the grains and meat. Knowing very well that neither of them were cooks of much renown, Dís kept an attentive eye on their porridge. Occasionally, however, her gaze flickered over to their sleeping company -- and more particularly to the fall of red hair that peeped above a tall tangle of blankets.

When Dís saw that Thorin was watching, she sighed. “Kíli gave her my blessing-stone."

Thorin longed to be more surprised by this revelation, but Kíli had always run recklessly toward battle and love alike. “Did Fíli tell you?”

“He told me himself. He spoke of her so often, but I thought it was another of his fancies, something to shock Grandfather with. You know how he loves to rile him with outlandish tales.”

“You seem very calm about this."

“I am not pleased,” Dís replied dryly, “and, Mahal, I can only imagine the fit Víli would have. But it seems senseless to stir up a fuss about it now.”

“I can speak with him if you like.”

“Don’t you say a word to him -- you know how he is. Tell him no, and he will do his best to do the opposite.” She fed another twig into the fire and glowered at the pasty, bubbling gruel atop it. “If the boys are to be believed, she saved Kíli’s life. Whether I like it or not, I owe her a debt.”

“No doubt he made a false idol of her in his memories. He hardly had a chance to know her. It will come to nothing when they learn more of each other and find that they are not suited.”

“And he might have married her, had he lived,” Dís snapped. “We shall never know, shall we?” There was a bristling silence, and Dís reached for her spoon to stir the pot violently.

“They will be parted when our quest is done,” Thorin said stiffly, wounded.

“All the more reason not to interfere.” She rubbed at her forehead in rage and frustration, and Thorin wondered when the threads of weary silver had crept into his sister’s hair. “Are we never to have peace?”

He had no reassurances for her.

The rest of the Company began to stir as dawn scattered the early fog, and soon enough a yawning crowd was gathered impatiently around the pot. Not even a smart warning smack from Dís’s spoon was enough to deter them from the twin temptations of the warm fire and the promise of breakfast. Bowls were produced, and Thorin was consigned to dishing up the watery porridge.

The halfling thanked him very politely when Thorin gave him his share. He lingered by the pot, shuffling his large feet with the air of someone who had something to say but no idea how to go about saying it. Thorin filled another bowl hastily for his brother and left. Frodo stayed by the fire for a moment, visibly flustered, and then slunk away to sit between Bofur and Balin.

Thorin’s flight did not go unnoticed.

“What's wrong with you?” Frerin hissed under his breath, though he accepted his bowl eagerly enough. “Are you worried that he’s afraid of you? I’ll grant you, he is a scrawny thing, but he doesn’t strike me as the sort to frighten easily. Bofur plucked him up to carry on his shoulders last night, and he didn’t let out so much as a squeak.”

“Eat your breakfast,” Thorin said shortly.

They didn’t linger over their food. The camp was broken and neatly packed again within a half-hour, and Gandalf cast a satisfied eye over them all as they shouldered their baggage. “Well, this should make for a merry party! It is not too terribly far to Mount Taniquetil, if memory serves me. We shall go on north from here, and there ought to be a road that joins with the riverbank that will take us directly to the mount.”

His phrasing gave Thorin pause. “You’re not certain?”

“It has been some time since I have travelled this way. After five thousand years, I can hardly be expected to remember every twist and turn in Aman. Oh, don't trouble yourselves now. Did I not lead you safely across Middle-earth?”

“Aye, If you don’t regard the trolls," said Bofur.

“Or the goblins,” Óin added. “And those giant bloody rocks.”

“Ah, and Mirkwood. I didn’t much fancy elvish prisons.”

“And ---”

“That’s settled then,” Balin called loudly from the rear of the huddle. “Please do lead on, Master Gandalf.”

“Thank you, Balin,” Gandalf said, with great dignity.

They marched quickly, eager to leave the barren, treacherous country behind, but the edge of panic that had driven them before was quite gone. They amused themselves with telling increasingly unlikely tales as they walked. Fíli and Kíli seemed to have taken it into their heads that Frodo required their company, and they hovered about him, drawing him into their conversation at every opportunity. It brought a distressing tightness to Thorin’s chest to see them prodding and teasing, eager to be liked and approved of, just as they had done with Bilbo.

Unlike his uncle, the young Baggins did not seem intimidated or annoyed by their overtures; he dealt with them as though he were accustomed to overbearing friendliness. He laughed obligingly at their jests and offered up a few stories of the escapades of his cousins in return, which Thorin thought rather explained his tolerance. He did, however, turn down requests to tell tales of his own journey with profuse apologies, and he looked so discomposed by any mention of the quest that even Ori, with his historian’s thirst for stories, declined to press him further.

They passed the morning pleasantly in this way. The dry, rocky land was put behind them and the grassy road rose and fell in a series of gently rolling hills and valleys as they returned to the riverbank. Gandalf seemed taken aback by the new scenery and left their party with assurances that he would return promptly; he only needed to scout ahead a little and get his bearings.

It was not very reassuring.

They kept to the path, trusting that the wizard would be able to find them, and went down into the deep valley the river had carved into the banks. Over the low hillock, a large pond swelled out from the river, its water the colour of the purest-cut aquamarine. It was beautiful but clearly not a natural feature; the hue of the water changed very suddenly as it cut into the bank, and, supposing that it was better to be careful, Thorin cautioned the others away from it.

Kíli, however, was already poking curiously about the water.

“Kíli,” Dís said warningly, just as the elf called his name with some alarm. They both paused and glanced at each other uncomfortably.

“I only want to look at it,” Kíli protested, locking his hands behind his back emphatically. “Just look, that’s all.”

Thorin sighed and quickened his steps to join Kíli to the pond’s edge, ready to pull him back. He’d barely touched his sister-son’s elbow, however, before his eye was caught by a shadow on the pond’s surface. Beneath the water, an elf-child swayed with the gentle current, dark hair spinning in spidery rivulets around his still, waxy face. Kíli reared back with a wail of horror, but Thorin lunged, hands already outstretched to scoop up the drowning elfling.

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Gandalf roared, voice roiling like a thundercloud over the valley. “Do _not_ touch the water!”

“There’s someone in there!” Kíli cried, but in a blink, Gandalf was beside them, pulling them both away with an astounding and unrelenting strength.

“He is already gone,” Gandalf said firmly, not loosening his grasp, “and in all likelihood he has been so for many, many years.”

With dawning revulsion, Thorin saw now that there were other figures in the pond: dozens of small, motionless bodies, bobbing calmly below the water’s surface. His stomach turned. Dís gripped his shoulder as the others huddled around, and her hand shook with fury. There were several startled breaths, and a low, vicious growl from Bifur.

“This is a burial ground,” Gandalf declared, throwing up his staff between the dwarves and the water. "It is under the protection of Vána the Ever-Young. Now step away and compose yourselves!”

Óin’s cheeks were bloodless beneath his beard. “This is -- this is -- who would do this? What twisted, _despicable_ \---”

“Hold your tongue!” Gandalf interrupted, very sharply. “This pool is a hallowed place.” After a tense moment, he lowered his staff, apparently satisfied that none of the dwarves were going to dash headlong into the water. “The death of an elfling from illness or accident is a very rare tragedy. They cannot stay in Valinor, as their spirits have already fled their bodies. They cannot go to Mandos in his Halls, for they were neither slain in battle nor fit to be judged. Vána created this pool that they might rest peacefully here, under her protection until the Remaking.”

It seemed a rational explanation, but still Thorin trembled with anger. “To leave them here, where any creature might see them . . .  to leave them to the open air . . . . "

“Elven burials are not like yours,” Gandalf said, more gently. “I realize it is a distressing sight, but I give you my solemn word that no dishonour is dealt here. Now does that satisfy you? Any more questions?”

“I’ve one,” Bofur said, in tones of sudden alarm. “Where’s wee Frodo?”

 

***

 

Thorin was the one to find him, after only a few moments of searching -- the hobbit was on the path, trotting nervously back and forth and wringing his small hands. “Master Baggins,” he said, loudly enough to catch his attention and softly enough not to startle.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered, upon spotting Thorin there. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to run off and worry anyone. I couldn’t stay there a moment longer.” A powerful shudder rolled through him; his jaw worked soundlessly for a moment before he said, all in a rush, “I saw marshes once. There were bodies in the water, all of the fallen soldiers. It was -- it was -- it was useless, senseless. It wasn’t glorious. It was pitiful. They were left there, with no one to return them to the earth, no one to sing for them. Did no one love them enough to search for them and take them home?” The halfling rocked back on his heels and looked at Thorin, but his eyes were distant and unseeing. “All I could think was if Sam and I fell, would someone else come across our bones someday and think the same thing of us?”

“Those are heavy thoughts,” Thorin said. “But I have no words of wisdom for you. Dwarrowkind always lay their dead to rest under stone. Only the foulest dwarf would deny even his worst enemy the dignity of a proper burial.”

There was an uncomfortable stillness when the halfling did not reply. Thorin cast about for something to say. “You need not be ashamed. Even the most battle-hardened among us struggle with the shades of what we have seen.”

“I doubt you run away so foolishly. I didn't think of how it would seem. We should go back."

“Retreat is sometimes the braver course,” Thorin said. His heart began to pound a hurried rhythm in his breast. “I told your Uncle so, once. Perhaps he mentioned it to you.”

“No, he hardly ever spoke of you.”

The hurt that lashed Thorin then was shocking, as accustomed as he had become to the rawness of his grief. It was as he had long feared: Bilbo’s kindness had led him to speak words of forgiveness that he had not truly felt -- a well-meant deception to pacify a dying king.

A slender hand on his wrist made him raise his eyes.

“I misspoke, Master Oakenshield. I always thought Uncle could not speak of you often because he felt your loss so keenly.” His own boldness seemed to catch up with him then, and he timidly drew back and shuffled his big feet shyly. “You needn’t address me as Master Baggins, you know. I’ve asked everyone else to call me Frodo. Formality has no place among friends.”

Thorin managed a small smile. “No, it does not. We should return to the others, if you are ready. If not, I will tell them you are safe and you may stay here as long as you like.”

The hobbit was already straightening his waistcoat, mouth set stubbornly. “No, I’m well now. I only needed a minute.” He bobbed his head to Thorin like a little bird. “Thank you.”

Thorin returned his gesture gravely, and together they went to rejoin the Company.

 

* * *

* * *

_FRODO_

* * *

 

 

IT WAS AN UNEXPECTED boon to travel with a large company once more. Frodo had forgotten how comforting it was to journey with the safety of decent numbers, and he felt far more at ease having so many seasoned travellers sharing the road with him. Certainly the dwarves were no replacements for Sam and Merry and Pippin, nor Aragorn or Legolas, but with such interesting companions, Frodo did not want for entertainment to distract him from his worries. By the end of their first week together, Frodo liked all of them, and each in their own particular way.

When Frodo sheepishly rejoined the others after the incident at the pond, Óin had hauled him over for an examination, ignoring his protests that he was fine, thank you. Satisfied that Frodo had not somehow managed to mortally injure himself in the few minutes he had been separated from the party, the old dwarf had clucked over his thinness, told him to eat more, and given him a clap on the back that nearly sent him sprawling.

Balin was a particular favourite, as Frodo had faint but fond memories of the dwarf from his early childhood. He recollected pleading with his mother to visit Bag End so that he might see Uncle Bilbo’s friend, who looked nothing like a proper hobbit and always had sweets tucked in his coin-purse. Balin was as warm and approachable as he remembered and was probably the most knowledgeable of all the dwarves; if there was a question to be asked, Balin could likely provide the answer. Still, he was kept busy consulting with Gandalf and Thorin and Dís, and Frodo was often only able to catch him for conversation when they broke camp in the evenings.

As one of the dwarves who had been dearest to Bilbo, Bofur had apparently designated himself as caretaker and guide in his friend’s stead. He slung an arm about Frodo’s shoulder while they walked and took pains to see that he always had the choicest spot to lay his bedroll. Frodo might have appreciated the fussing less if Bofur hadn’t gone about it so mildly and with such obvious pleasure. His cousin Bifur rarely spoke to Frodo -- or at all, so far as he could tell -- but he always set aside a small portion of his plate to spoon wordlessly onto Frodo’s at every meal. It was a gracious gesture, and though he felt awkward eating more than his fair share, he was very grateful nevertheless for the extra food. Hunger now brought with it too many unpleasant associations.

Thorin was a strange puzzle. Kingly he was, certainly, and his company looked to him with a love and respect that were obvious to Frodo -- though perhaps, he thought, not to Thorin himself. He wore an aura of melancholy about him like a cloak, his sorrows old and entrenched, with a heaviness in his bearing that savoured strongly of poor Faramir. Or perhaps he was merely sad in the way of all beings aged beyond their years. He did not often smile and laughed even less, and his frown was fierce in its haughty displeasure. Still, he took pains to speak gently to Frodo, and he treated his nephews with a gruff affection that went a long way in dispelling Frodo’s wariness around him.

Thorin’s brother and sister kept their distance as well, though it seemed more out of preoccupation with their tasks than any ill-intent. They were both kind to him. Dís’s indulgent and watchful eye fell on him almost as frequently as it did upon her sons, and despite his protests, she gifted him with a pair of her woolen mittens when she saw that he had none. Frerin was charming and open, if a bit brash, and always made a particular effort to draw him into conversation.

Naturally, Frodo found himself most often grouped with the younger dwarves. Kíli was loud and merry, brimming with good cheer and mischief and a sweetness that showed itself in small, thoughtful ways. His brother was calmer, prouder, and had a good deal more dignity, but he was willing to be pulled into Kíli’s schemes if they promised him enough amusement. Frodo liked them both, even if their limitless vigour could become exhausting. Still, he had not spent his childhood with Merry and Pippin for nothing.

Most of all, though, he liked Ori, who was soft-spoken and clever and seemed to know a little bit about everything. He had been quite the scholar once, and he confessed to Frodo with some wryness that he was likely the only dwarf within the last century to voluntarily learn Sindarin. They often talked in low voices late into the night when they ought to have been sleeping instead, and Frodo was relieved to find that there was someone else who understood what it was to be lonely, even surrounded by friends.

“I miss my brothers,” Ori whispered one night, as they all lay tucked snugly in their bedrolls around the banked fire. “I mean to say, of course I’m happy they’re alive, and in good health . . . it isn’t the same, not having them with me. Dori fussed something dreadful, even once I was full-grown, but I’d like nothing more than to have him telling me to wear a warmer tunic or oil my beard properly.” He turned his face into the pillow of his arms; Frodo could hear his beads clinking softly. “Do you have brothers, Frodo? Or sisters?”

“I have more cousins than I can count. Sam was as dear to me as anyone could be, and I miss him every day. It’s so strange to be without him.”

“I don’t believe the strangeness ever goes away entirely,” Ori said, "but we’ll see them again someday. We need only be patient.” He paused. “Hobbits _do_ have a hall, don’t they? Or is it a great secret? You needn’t tell me if it is.”

“Oh, no, it’s no great secret. We just don’t talk of it often. When I die I will go to Yavanna in her pastures, as all hobbits do. She’s not our Maker, but she has claimed us as her own.”

Ori looked fascinated. “In a pasture, you say? Is it in Valinor? Have your people always gone there? It’s very hard to find recorded histories of hobbits, you know.” He sounded a little scolding, and Frodo grinned into his blanket.

“It must be in Valinor. I don’t know where else it would be. It's said that the pastures are beautiful beyond compare, with flowers always in bloom and plenty of good green food to eat.”

Ori wrinkled his nose. Frodo laughed aloud before hushing himself and they both looked about guiltily, but Bifur and Bofur, who were sleeping nearby, didn’t stir.

“I don’t know why Yavanna chose us. There is an old story of a hobbit who grew a single rosebush more beautiful than any other rosebush. She tended it for years and years and loved it almost like a child. When she grew old, knowing that her time was nearly spent, she gave it in tribute to Yavanna for safekeeping. The Green Lady was so touched by the offering that she promised that the hobbit and her kin and all her kin’s kin would have a place in her garden along with the roses.” He wound his blanket tighter. “There’s another story that says the first hobbits sprouted from the ground one day and Yavanna claimed them as her own. The first one makes for a better story.”

“Yes, I like that one better. Dwarrows have a very similar tale, only we sprang from the rock, hammered out by Mahal’s chisel and shaped by his Great Forge.”

“Maybe we all began the same way,” Frodo said.

“Maybe.” Ori stretched and rolled over to face the sky. “It’s very odd -- I never thought I would see the stars again.”

There was a comfortable pause. The low murmur of voices from the others and the steady, snapping crackle of the fire made for a pleasantly drowsy backdrop.

“No,” Frodo said slowly. “I didn’t know what to expect when I crossed the Sea, but I suppose I didn’t either. It feels, sometimes, as though I didn’t leave Middle-earth at all. And it’s . . . well, it is a little strange to think of how I’m here talking to you when you’re . . . um.”

Ori chuckled. “I don't remember that I'm dead half the time. It’s not so very different from being alive.”

Frodo paused a moment for think on that absurdity, and he felt a little better for it. “It isn’t, is it?”

They smiled at each other. Fíli’s voice rose suddenly to shatter the sleepy calmness of their camp. “Durin’s beard, go to sleep, Kíli! You’ve been nattering for an hour now.”

Frerin had been stoking the fire, but Frodo saw him twist around to smirk at his nephew. “Even asleep you make enough noise to wake the stone giants.”

“Me? _You_ snore like a warg.”

“And you look like one, lad,” he returned, and the camp erupted into loud, appreciative hoots.

“None of you will ever snore again if you don’t shut your mouths,” Thorin growled.

The laughter immediately tapered off. Frodo caught Ori’s eye and had to muffle a snort in his blankets.

All in all Frodo rather liked travelling with dwarves. Bilbo had, as usual, had the right of it.

 

****

 

The snow came upon them so suddenly that Frodo thought he had been caught up in the throes of another false vision. But no, a few rapid blinks didn't whisk away the powdery shelves of snow that glittered on the road before them, and the flakes that had caught in his curls were cold and real enough to melt between his fingers. Even the river was iced into a white ribbon, shining painfully in the light.

Bofur let out a low whistle, and Thorin immediately turned to Gandalf for an explanation.

“The poor weather shouldn’t last,” the wizard said, addressing them all. “Put on your furs and hoods. There will only be snow for this brief stretch of road, and then the weather should clear.”

“It _is_ snow, isn’t it?” Bofur asked.

“What else should it be?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a pond that isn’t actually a pond, aye? Or a cavern that isn’t a cavern and is in fact a dragons’ lair? I’m not trusting my old blinkers much these days, sorry to say.”

“A fair point taken, Master Bofur. No, I can assure you all that this is indeed snow.”

“We’ll take your word,” Thorin said, with a rather hard look.

Obediently the Company brought out their heaviest furs and mittens, and Óin wound his own scarf around Frodo’s neck, muttering about him catching cold. Cautious of any hidden ice patches, they trooped on.

On the opposite riverbank a great citadel came gradually into view, standing lonely and proud in the fields. It looked to Frodo’s eyes as though it were made of black marble or some other polished stone; it gleamed beautifully, its towering walls as smooth as glass, with not a gate or door in sight.

“What is that?” Fíli asked wonderingly.

Gandalf squinted, shielding his eyes against the flurry. “That, young Fíli, is Mandos’s Keep.”

“The Halls of Waiting,” Tauriel breathed, and from the way she stiffened as soon as the words had passed her lips, Frodo knew she had not meant to speak aloud.

Gandalf gave her a curious, measured look before returning his attention to the rest of the Company. “We will go no closer,” he said. “It is impossible to gain entry, and Mandos is not overly fond of guests besides.”

“Mandos?” Frodo asked.

“The Keeper and Judge. Men and elves lost in battle go here to have their lives measured by him before they pass on.”

“Pass on where?”

“Beyond Eä, I suppose.”

“You suppose?” Óin said.

“As I am neither an elf nor a Man, yes."

“Are we in danger passing so close?” Dís asked. Considering their previous mishaps, Frodo thought it a reasonable question.

Gandalf shook his head. “You need not worry yourself. We are safe. You will be glad, Frodo, to hear that Mandos is not as forthright as Oromë. He does his duty quietly and never stirs from his Halls. His task is not a joyous one, but he bears no one ill-will and would not do us harm.”

His words proved true, for they passed the tower by with no trouble. The Keep was not foreboding, exactly, but there was a sombre, funereal air about its intimidating spires that convinced Frodo that he would not wish to tarry there long. It occurred to him that Boromir might dwell somewhere within those walls, and perhaps good Théoden too, whom Merry had loved.

 _Rest well_ , he thought. He hoped that Mandos would judge them kindly.

As they walked, the snowfall tapered and then ceased. By dusk both sky and ground were dry and the Company could peel away their over-clothes. The gloomy air of the Keep and the cold seemed to have put everyone in a contemplative mood, and camp that night was unusually quiet.

Frodo squeezed his bedroll between Ori and Bofur and burrowed under their shared blankets, avoiding Bofur’s icy toes and ensuring that Ori’s beard wasn’t caught underneath his head. (He had woken up more than once with the imprint of braid-beads upon his cheek.) Warm and snugged between two very hairy furnaces, Frodo fell asleep between one breath and the next.

It was dark when he woke. The campfire had burned itself down to mere embers, and no one was stirring -- not even Balin, who had been keeping watch, and was now slumped with his chin on his chest, snoring softly. Frodo shifted, cautious of waking his bedfellows, and rolled over to go back to sleep. His eyes turned by chance to the scrub-tree where Tauriel had laid her blankets earlier that evening.

The blankets were gone -- and so was the elf.

Frodo sat up in alarm. Ori stirred and settled with a soft grumble, and Frodo kept himself very still, unwilling to wake the entire Company if Tauriel had merely moved her bed or stepped away for a moment to attend to private business.

But no, the bed and her packroll and bow were gone. Kíli was nested between his mother and uncle, and there was no tall, red-headed bundle curled up anywhere else around the camp. Wriggling out from under Bofur’s heavy arm, Frodo crawled through the bottom of the blankets and stood up for a closer look. Unless some dreadful beast had snatched her up without a fight -- which Frodo found utterly implausible, considering -- Tauriel had left and taken her things with her, no doubt not intending to return.

This conclusion brought with it a measure of hurt, for Frodo had begun to count her as a friend, but mostly he felt fear for her safety. Aman had already proven itself difficult to travel and full of tricks and snares, and the thought of her becoming lost with no one to help her was more than he could stand. The copse they’d made camp in was surrounded by wide, open fields that stretched for miles without a single swell of a hilltop; he was sure that he would be able to catch a glimpse of her and see where she had gone if he would only go a little ways beyond the cover of the trees.

It was the work of mere minutes to slip his bow and a few arrows from his pack and fill a lantern with a spoonful of smouldering embers. Throwing his cloak over his shoulders, he took up his things and crept over the sleeping dwarves. Gandalf sat reclined against the trunk of a tree, wrapped in his robes. His eyes were open (which s _till_ unsettled Frodo, even after all this time) but he was clearly deep in slumber -- he didn’t so much as twitch as Frodo stepped past him and slipped away into the shadows of the wood.

 

* * *

 


	6. The River of Nienna

  
CHAPTER FIVE

* * *

* * *

_THORIN_

* * *

 

“HE’S GONE! THE LAD’s gone!”

Although it was not the cry itself that woke Thorin (that dubious honour could be attributed to a reflexive kick from Fíli’s iron-capped boot), the words nevertheless struck a chill into his sleep-fogged mind. He sat up to find Bofur and Ori rifling frantically through their blankets, the other dwarrows groggily stirring around them.

“What are you yammering about?” Óin groused, rolling over and shielding his eyes from the early morning sunlight.

“Frodo’s gone!” Ori wailed, and in an instant Thorin was on his feet.

The next few moments were utter calamity and confusion. No bedroll was left overturned, no scrub-bush undisturbed, but the halfling was nowhere to be found. Gandalf, who had woken with a snort and a startle, seemed as bewildered as the rest of them, if not remotely as alarmed.

“Where would he have gone?” Óin yanked at his beard in consummate frustration. “Why would he leave in the middle of the night?”

Ori lifted his blankets for the third time in as many minutes, as if he expected Frodo to suddenly appear underneath them. "How did he leave camp without anyone seeing him?”

Balin’s look of horror was answer enough.

There was a clamour in the trees. Kíli tore through the underbrush, wild-eyed. “Tauriel’s gone!”

Frerin looked to Thorin blankly before cutting a warier glance at Kíli. “Could they have run away?”

Mahal, Thorin had not sworn to keep Bilbo’s kinsman safe even a week ago and already he had lost him! Inflamed by his helplessness, a ghastly suspicion was beginning to creep into his heart. “Or the elf forced him to go.”

This caught Kíli's attention. “She would never!"

“We know nothing about her, nor her purpose here.”

Kíli slapped his brother’s placating hand away with an incensed snarl; Fíli fell back, looking hurt. “ _You_ know nothing about her!”

“Watch your tongue,” Frerin cautioned.

“Watch your own! You shame me, behaving as though she doesn’t deserve your esteem when she's trying to help you.” He whirled on Thorin next, and the fire of his temper was all his mother's. “You most of all, pretending that you don’t know what it is to love someone who isn’t a proper dwarf!”

 _“ Atkât!”_ Dís bellowed. It seemed to Thorin, who scarcely felt able to draw a proper breath, that everyone had grown very quiet.

Gandalf's staff came out then, nudging Kíli back a few paces. "Indeed! You are being absurd, the lot of you, and I have had quite enough of this. Frodo is a capable, fully-grown hobbit, not a fauntling who has wandered away from his parents. _Think_ for a moment. He has taken his weapons and his coat, as well as one of the lanterns. He is neither unarmed nor unprepared. Calm yourselves and find something useful to do. Breakfast wouldn’t go amiss, I think. Frodo is not in danger -- nor is Tauriel,” he added, when Kíli looked fit to erupt. “Let them be. They will come back when they wish it, and no sooner.”

“And you know this how?” Dís said curtly.

“Because I make knowing things my business.” He lowered his staff and looked at Thorin narrowly. “Again, I ask: do you trust me?” At Thorin’s brusque nod, he cast his eyes over the others. “Our companions will return in their own time. We will wait here for them. Rest. Eat, avail yourselves of a bath in the river -- Bifur, my dear dwarf, I strongly recommend that bit in particular -- and tend your weapons. We are in no hurry today.”

With much grumbling and glaring and several mutinous grimaces, the search was abandoned. Bofur lingered behind. “I’d be willing to wager a vein of silver that you enjoy being as clear as obsidian, Master Gandalf," he remarked.

“At my age, one takes enjoyment where one can. Rest assured that no harm will come to our friends. I would be first among the rescue party were it not so.”

“Aye,” Bofur conceded. “I can see you love the wee lad. Still, next time, mightn’t you suggest to him that he leave a note? Near to gave Ori and me a fit.”

“You may suggest it yourself, when you see him.”

Bofur seemed satisfied then. For a moment, he looked as if he might say something else, but then he tugged down his hat, gave Thorin a rueful smile, and rejoined the others.

Gandalf broke the silence with a mild, “Perhaps you might like to avail yourself of the stream as well, hmm?” and courteously left Thorin to tend his humiliated wounds in peace.

 

*****

 

“May I join you, laddie?”

Thorin waved a listless hand to the grass beside him, and Balin sat with an exaggerated, creaking groan. For a little while they each kept to their own thoughts, watching the river that rushed past them, bubbling softly and sending up clouds of white lather where it dashed against the bank.

“If nothing else, our folk do know how to make a pother," Balin murmured.

Thorin exhaled slowly. “You knew.”

Balin nodded.

“Did everyone?”

“You’ll have to ask,” he said, after a brief hesitation. “I can only speak for myself.”

A rush of scalding shame swept Thorin from head to toe, and his face grew hot. That his most intimate feelings should have been a subject of gossip around the fireside was unbearable. His Company, his kin, had made a laughing-stock of him, sniggering over his clumsy missteps, his pitiful failure of a courtship. “I have been made a fool of.”

“Now, Thorin, it’s not what you’re thinking.”

“How did you know?” His cheeks burned in the cool air, and it was pride alone that kept the wetness from his eyes. Was he so uncouth? He had been certain that he had concealed it well. It had only been a selfish wish, after all, easily put aside for the sake of the quest.

“How many years have I known you?” Balin admonished. “How long have I served the throne? How many years have I stood by you, and followed you, and loved you?" He gripped Thorin's arm and gave it a stern shake. "No one was laughing at you. No one thought ill of you for it."

“I only knew him a year,” Thorin said. “One year out of nearly two-hundred. I hardly liked him for some of it. It's daft, after all this time.” Yet . . . yet for all its brevity, it had felt real, and true. His folk did not give of themselves lightly. "But I felt the rightness of it. I did.” It had been sheer exhilaration, the satisfaction of producing a blade without flaw or placing the purest-cut gem squarely into its setting. Deep in his weakest self, he longed to feel it again.

“I cannot advise you in this,” Balin admitted, his hand still fast and firm. “I never had the desire for that companionship. I had my friends and my kin, my treaties and books and the inner workings of kingdoms. I lived a good life and never felt the want of someone to share it with.” He paused. “A vein of gold can be found in the most unpromising rock. You recognized his worth, Thorin -- aye, the time was brief, but that does not make it any less genuine.”

In truth, Thorin had been affronted that Mahal had given him a round, finicky halfling, a thief who was not a thief, a clever teller of riddles and a lover of food and green growing things -- a creature who had neither a beard nor braids of honour, who cared nothing for gems and could not comprehend the beauty of stone. Surely it was some error, some poor jest at Thorin’s expense. They were nothing alike, as different as fowl and fish. But the Thorin who had dismissed a spineless green grocer with one glance had not been the same Thorin who found his eyes straying toward their Company’s smallest member at every turn. He was not the Thorin who had sought and trusted a hobbit’s counsel above all his kin, who had looked to him for guidance and advice, and who had dreamt tempting dreams of soft, damp flesh and a welcoming body curled sweet and warm beneath his. He was not yet a Thorin who wished for impossible things.

“Did he mourn for me?”

Balin looked tired. “We all did. My brother was never the same after losing you and the lads. I cannot speak for Bilbo. I saw him perhaps once every five years or so, if we were fortunate, and hobbits are different. They are quieter in their grief, and not much given to displays or ceremony. But yes, in his own way, I believe he mourned you. For many years he could not speak of your death, and he once told me he treasured the mithril corselet as something to remember you fondly by.”

“Fondly,” Thorin echoed.

The edges of Balin’s mouth curled. “That shirt could have bought the Shire four times over, and he kept it in an unlocked trunk under his bed.”

Thorin managed to find a small, incredulous laugh for that thought. How very like Bilbo, who valued biscuits above jewels and treated a priceless treasure like a knick-knack. No matter what became of it, it had been worth the gift. Through the dizzying haze of the dragon-sickness, the sight of the hobbit in his gleaming mail had been a dash of cool clarity; in that instant Thorin had wished for nothing more than a coronet to place above Bilbo’s queer pointed ears.

“Did he . . . do you think he might have . . . “

“I don’t know,” Balin said, very delicately. “I’m sorry.”

Thorin nodded and took a measured breath. The tightness in his chest was not gone, but there was some relief to be found. Perhaps speaking of it was not so terrible as he had feared.

“What do you expect?” Balin asked, apropos of nothing.

“What?”

His friend made an encompassing gesture to the water and lush flatlands around them. “When we see young Frodo returned to the elvish city -- when we arrive in Valinor and bring him home to Bilbo -- what do you hope for?”

It was a question that Thorin did not have an answer for. What did he hope to find in Valinor? One very old hobbit, whom he had loved long ago and who might possibly remember him as a departed friend, if he were very lucky? “I do not expect anything from him. But I would like . . . I would like to know, I think, whether I was alone in what I felt. I wish to go back to the Halls with a settled heart. Is that too much to ask?”

“No. No, I don’t believe it is. But he will be changed, Thorin. You will not find him the same hobbit you knew then.”

Thorin looked away. Balin leaned over, his hand at Thorin's neck, and brought their heads together somberly. “You cannot go back.”

“I cannot help but wish that I could.”

“As do we all.” Balin gave his brow a firm bump and withdrew.

“Uncle?”

Kíli stood at the edge of the trees, sheepish and uncertain of his welcome; Fíli, always the protective shadow, hovered at his brother’s back.

“I’ll leave you to it." Balin rose and shook the loose grass from his breeches. With a nod to Thorin he went away, giving Kíli’s shoulder a bracing clap as he passed.

“Come here,” Thorin said.

Kíli came willingly enough, brave lad, and Fíli followed. Kíli folded himself down to kneel on the grass and bowed his head. “I'm sorry, Thorin. I spoke out of turn and offered you insult.” His hand darted up unconsciously to rub at one reddened ear -- no doubt Dís had given it a smart tug.

"You did, but you weren't alone in it." Thorin looked at the birds-nest of the lad's dark hair and the proud curve of his nose, and for the first time it occurred to him that he had wronged them both. So many long years he had looked at his sister-sons without seeing them. His eyes had been filled only with the memory of their spilled blood and the fog of his own terrible guilt. They sat before him now, breathing, alive, their faces filled with light. How had he not seen them before? How had he not recognized this great blessing? “Kíli, if the elf -- if Tauriel has been chosen for you by Mahal, it is no power of mine to call your bond unworthy. For my own part, you were right to call me two-faced.”

Kíli’s mouth dropped open. Thorin might have smiled under other circumstances, but Fíli was not so circumspect: he chuckled into his fist. His brother seemed not to hear, or to care, for he was staring at Thorin with amazement. “I . . . you . . . .Thank you, Uncle. _Thank you_.” He paused then, and the delight in his smile was shadowed with regret. “I meant to be cruel. I knew the mention of Bilbo pained you. I will go back to the others and tell them that I was talking nonsense.”

“You weren’t, though he was never mine.”

Kíli sat frozen on his haunches, and this time open astonishment was painted on both lads’ faces. Kíli rocked forward to rest his cheek on Thorin’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said miserably.

Thorin reached out to cradle his bristled cheeks and soothe his worried brow. “You are braver than your uncle,” he murmured, “who had happiness in his grasp and no courage to take it.”

Kíli clung to him on one side and Fíli on the other, and Thorin held them close. They were a gift he did not deserve, his lads, but that he had been given it nonetheless and would waste no longer.

“We have missed you,” Fíli said, voice muffled in Thorin's coat. “I know you didn’t want to upset Amad . . . .”

“But we do miss you,” Kíli finished.

Thorin clasped them a little tighter. He thought, with wistful amusement, that Dwalin would have laughed and told him that he had gone soft as pudding in his dotage.

 

***

 

As they gathered around the fire that evening to dry off from their bath, Fíli settled in front of Thorin and wordlessly handed him his comb. There was a moment of tension as all eyes turned to Dís. She regarded both of them piercingly before returning her attention to Kíli’s hair, which she was attempting to arrange into some semblance of a braid. Thorin felt Fíli let out a soft, grateful sigh.

Thorin closed his eyes briefly before taking up the comb. With the ease of decades of practice, he smoothed down the wet strands and divided them neatly into Fíli’s customary braids: one in memory of his father, one each for his mother and brother, two for honour in battle, and finally the thick, four-stranded braid of Durin’s folk, wound together with a thinner Longbeard plait. When the golden strands were properly bound, Thorin added the only ornaments Fíli ever wore: a misshapen silver bead clumsily forged by Kíli for his brother’s coming-of-age day and a large ruby clasp made by Thorin and Dís together, a gift to signify the standing of his chosen heir.

When he finished, Fíli shifted to kneel at Thorin’s back.

Sitting patiently as Fíli teased out the knots -- his hair, like his mother’s and Dís’s, had always had enough waves and curls to be a trial to brush -- Thorin cast his eyes around the fire. It was quiet tonight, all of them still anxious about the continuing absence of their smallest companion. Bofur plucked idly at his fiddle while Bifur wove beads (and somewhat inexplicably, twigs) into his hair; Balin and Óin were playing a game of chess with differently-sized pebbles, Ori keeping a watchful eye out for any dishonesty.

Fíli moved in front of him to separate strands for Thorin’s customary forelocks, and Thorin looked down -- his eye was caught by the flash of his signet ring, its crest glinting in gold and black.

He had once been a dwarf with pride, even with his beard shorn in remembrance of lost Erebor. What had happened to him that he had let himself wear nothing but two practical plaits to keep his hair from his eyes at the forges of Men? Why had he put away his beads and unraveled his braids, set aside his history and forgotten his place? His love for his home had become a need for the mountain itself rather than the dwarrows who had once filled it.

“Fíli,” he said, “be a good lad and fetch my pack.”

Fíli obliged. In the very bottom of the bag, stitched into a little hidden pocket, were a handful of beads that travelled with him from Erebor to Ered Luin and back, a meagre but beloved treasure that had followed him into the afterlife. Plain and intricate, gold and stone, jewelled and unadorned, they were the beads of his history, given to him by his mother and father, sister and brother, friends and kin.  

He offered his open palm, heaped with beads, to his sister-son. “It has been far too long since I’ve worn these.”

Fíli made quick work of it, nimble fingers not prone to pulling too tight like his mother’s were. “There,” he said, voice brimming over with pride. “You look very well.”

Thorin reached up to feel the heaviest braid at the hollow of his nape, tied with two beads, and drew it in front of himself to study -- a five-stranded plait of courage in the Longbeard style, woven with simple marble clasps given to him by Fíli and Kíli. His throat felt tight.

“One more braid, I think,” he said. “A small one, three-stranded, behind my left ear, with Fârfil’s Knot.”

Fíli’s hands paused, the comb halfway through a stubborn tangle, but a moment later he resumed his task. “With a bead or without?”

Thorin plucked up a wooden bead, carved one idle night at Beorn’s. “This one.” It was a rough, uneven thing, with a poorly-done engraving of a sunflower scrolling over its length. He remembered whittling it with his paring knife, modeling it after one of the massive blooms that Beorn had allowed Bilbo to take with him as a talisman. Bilbo had carefully pressed and dried the flowers between the pages of one of his jealously-guarded books. As they travelled through Mirkwood, Thorin had often caught him looking at them longingly, touching the withered petals as though the mere shade of something green and good could cast away the sickness of that cursed forest. Trapped in the dank prison of Mirkwood, Thorin had often rolled the bead between his fingers and wondered what Bilbo would say if he made a gift of it to him.

Fíli dutifully wove the tiny braid and slid the bead on the end before looping it around and tying it back. He drew away and looked at Thorin uncertainly.

“Well done,” Thorin told him, fingering the new braid reverently.

At the fire, Frerin drummed his spoon loudly on the side of the iron pot. “Stew’s ready!”

“Stop that. We can hear you fine.” Dís released her grip on Kíli, who shot off toward the promise of dinner with his hair no neater than it had been before.  Frerin gave her a look and dealt the pot one more slow, deliberate wallop. Fíli laughed, and Thorin shook his head despairingly to conceal his smile. His beads clinked pleasingly with the movement, and in that moment, he felt just as he had when he had seen Erebor from the Carrock -- as if a piece of himself had been taken up, dusted off, and put back in its proper place.

Fíli scurried up to claim his portion; Thorin had risen to follow him at more dignified pace when Gandalf drifted over, bearing two steaming wooden bowls. He handed one to Thorin.

“It will be dark soon.” Thorin took a sip of the broth, dark and rich, and rooted out a few sizable chunks of potato and venison, seasoned with some herb or another. Frerin had always been a decent cook. “I could take a lantern and wait for Frodo and the elf by the edge of the camp.”

“They will be back soon,” Gandalf said patiently. “By morning at the very latest.” He cast his eyes over Thorin's hair, smiling faintly, but when his gaze fell on Thorin's ear, his brows crept up his forehead. “Should I congratulate you, Thorin?”

Thorin could not quite prevent his hand from rising instinctively to the tiny braid behind his ear. “No,” he said shortly.

Gandalf gave him another look, and into his too-knowing eyes came a light that Thorin had learned to heartily dislike. “Forgive me. Perhaps my knowledge of dwarfish hairstyles is not as accurate as it once was.” With a mocking little nod, he wandered away to observe the chess game, which had evidently become heated if Ori’s raised voice was any indication.

This day had brought with it far too many upsets for Thorin to trouble himself over an infernal wizard. He sat back, ate his dinner, and resolved to find a good lantern.

 

*****************

 

_FRODO_

 

UPON LEAVING THE CAMP, Frodo had fully intended to wander no farther than the edge of the wood to see if Tauriel was within sight and to call for the others if she wasn’t. He had not gone far, however, before it occurred to him that the modest forest seemed much denser than he recollected it being. Lifting his lantern high, he studied the thick tangle of pale birches with rising alarm. Had they not been tall, sturdy oaks before? He must have been travelling so long that his memory for surrounding scenery had begun to fade. Uneasily he went on, certain that the canopy would eventually open out into the fields.

It did not.

With no sign of Tauriel, and no clear path to follow, Frodo reluctantly decided to turn back. Having no reliable manner of retracing his steps, he promptly grew disoriented. Which way had he come? Which direction was he going? He stopped and peered around desperately, but there nothing in sight but old trees and shadowy underbrush, without so much as a footprint in the dirt.

In a matter of moments, Frodo had become well and truly lost.

“Bramble-headed, soft-heeled bumblebroth!” he swore. What a doltish faunt he seemed, running off on his own at night, leaving no note, and getting himself turned about before he’d hardly gone a mile! He had journeyed across Middle-earth with some of the finest Rangers and travellers and learned their skills and tricks of survival, and now he’d run off senselessly like the greenest adventure-seeker.

Gandalf would be furious!

“Where is your head, Frodo Baggins?” he scolded himself, bending to hurriedly rekindle his lantern with twigs. The last thing he needed now was to stumble about in the dark. “A fine thing it would be if everyone should have to waste time rescuing you.”

“Calm yourself now.” He turned this way and that, and stared up at the stars as if they might helpfully arrange themselves into a map, or perhaps a useful arrow to point him in the right direction. “This is not so very different from that time you and Pip got lost in a rainstorm in Buckland, and Sam had to come and find you.” But it was different, wasn’t it? This time there would be no timely rescue from Sam, no indulgent relatives to cluck and scold and ply him with warm blankets and piping hot tea.

Oh, even Pippin would laugh at his foolishness now.

No doubt the dwarves would discover their missing companions and come looking for them. Oughtn’t he wait here that they could find him more easily?

“Should you ever become separated from your party,” Aragorn had told him one day, as the Fellowship had struggled through the rocky terrain outside Imladris, “or lose your way on the path, wait for us. Do not wander any farther, but allow us time to follow your tracks.” He’d huffed one of his rare laughs then, and had given Frodo’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “Unless you are being tracked by orcs. They can follow trails as well as we can.”

“In which case, flee as fast as your legs can carry you,” Legolas had added dryly.

It had seemed like reasonable advice at the time, but Frodo was not keen to settle down in an unfamiliar forest in lands unbound by Middle-earth’s rules and reason, lest there was another pack of spectral wolves lurking about. No, he would keep going and hope that the dwarves would think to let Gandalf lead the search party. Frodo was not afraid that they wouldn’t find him -- he was too accustomed to his friend’s preternatural ability for appearing when he was most desperately needed to believe that -- but the humiliation of requiring rescue from his own rescue attempt was no paltry thing.

Disheartened, he wound his way gradually through the trees. He could not say how long he walked. The moon was still high when he finally broke out from the woods to find himself right back at the river. It was undoubtedly the same river they had been following -- it was the same size and clear blue-grey colour -- and he eagerly slid down the steep incline to its grassy banks. The starlight on the water was brighter than the glow of his lantern, and it was calm and quiet. Though he strained his eyes in every direction, there was no yellow glow from the dwarves’ campfire anywhere in sight.

Tired and thirsty and longing for a good breakfast, Frodo sat on the grass with his head in his hands.

If he could not even step away from his companions without getting himself thoroughly lost, how in the Green Lady’s name did he expect to go on to the Timeless Halls? He began to doubt that he would return to the Bay with any answers. Perhaps Ilúvatar would not find him worthy of an audience and turn him away unheard. He ached to think of coming home with no good news, forced to watch his uncle shrivel into a twisted shadow of what he had once been. The thought of his own fading sent thrills of sick fear through him. The Ring would break him too. He would linger for centuries as something less than himself.

What had he been thinking? How had he ever believed that he was capable of finding a cure when Galadriel and Elrond and even Gandalf could not?

The more he thought of it, the more his anger and sorrow throttled him. He saw Sméagol, melting into the fire with shrieks of joy. He saw horror steal over Sam’s face as Frodo held Sting to his throat. He watched Gandalf fall down and down and down, the Balrog’s fiery whip still lashing behind him. He felt Mount Doom’s scorching heat under his toes and bent under the agony of knowing that he was helpless, that the Ring had won after all.

Frodo wished desperately for Bag End, for Brandybuck Hall and his laughing, carefree cousins. He longed for his grandmother’s embraces and his father’s songs. He missed his childhood, those days when he had known nothing beyond the Shire and had not yet learned what it was to feel pain. He wished he had never even heard the word ‘adventure’. He wished that he had not spoken out in Rivendell, that he had let his uncle bear the Ring to Mordor. He wanted Sam. He wanted his mother.

His despair overwhelmed him, and he began to cry.

Frodo cried until he thought the tears would choke him, but he could not stop. He wailed and clawed his fingers into the dirt. He shook and trembled. He mourned for all he had lost, all that the Ring had stolen from him. He cried for what he had become. When he had no more tears left to spend, he lay limp and exhausted on the grass.

A bubbling sound made him lift his stinging cheek from the ground. In the middle of the river stood a tall woman in a white hood, weeping.

Frodo blinked the dewy film from his vision, but the figure was still there, swaying back and forth against the current. Her slender brown hands hid her face. Tendrils of inky hair dripped in straight line from her hood, rippling out in the water with the folds of her cloak. Her sobs were pitiful, and Frodo's eyes spilled with tears again.

He could not have said how long he sat there watching the woman weeping in the starlight, but after a time her sobs slowed. Her hands fell away from her face -- no tears stained her skin, and her eyes were as the void of the night sky. She looked at Frodo, and the air prickled against his wet cheeks. She turned her head, and slowly, slowly she sank into the river until the top of her white hood vanished and nothing remained but the swift tumble of the current.

Frodo sat up and wiped the dampness from his face. He watched the water, sniffling, and took account of himself.

He felt raw and sore and weary down to his bones, but the hurt was pleasant in some strange way, as if the pain was no longer so overwhelming as to leave him numb. His hand rose unconsciously to his chest. Something hard and blackened had fallen away, a knot inside him unbound at last. Perhaps he was no great adventurer, and no great hero. Perhaps Ilúvatar would not see him. Perhaps he would return to Valmar with no answers. But he would try, as he had always had.

“Thank you,” he said fervently, and he swore he heard a soft, silvery laugh.

 

************************

 

A brief nap and a quick wash in the river did much to renew Frodo’s determination. As dawn broke, he felt confident enough to try his luck again.

He gathered up his things and reverently lay a sprig of wildflowers at the water’s edge as an offering for the Lady of Mercy. As he set it among the rocks, a river pebble washed up next to one foot, nearly on top of his toe. He plucked it up. It was a pretty turquoise stone, polished by the current to a diamond-shine. He slipped it in his vest pocket and climbed back up the slope of the bank. He followed the river, declining to venture into the woods again, but it was not long at all before he heard a faint call behind him. He turned to see Tauriel running up the incline, one hand raised high and the other clutching her bow.

“Tauriel!” She looked unharmed, and so heady was his relief that he hugged her around the waist before he could the think better of it. She seemed more surprised than displeased and even gave his head an awkward, amiable pat as they parted.

“Why are you out here alone?” she asked sternly, drawing back to look him over with a discerning stare. “I found your trail and saw that you had left the dwarves’ camp.”

“I was following you, but I'm afraid I made a muddle of it.”

“You came looking for me?”

“I was afraid something might have happened to you to make you leave so suddenly. Not that you can’t do what you wish, of course, but friends look out for each other.”

“And are we friends?”

“I would like to think so.”

There was more warmth then in Tauriel’s countenance than Frodo had seen from her before. “I would like to think so too.” She bent to grasp his shoulder and gave him a scolding shake. “But kindly refrain from running off from the party by yourself again. You are no woodsman.”

“I have no intention of going away by myself again,” Frodo said fervently. “But are you quite sure you’re well? You did leave of your own choice?”

“I did, and a poor choice it was.” She slung her bow over her back. “Will you give me a moment to find the words? I will tell you all.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“No, I owe you an explanation, seeing that you left camp for my sake.”

Tauriel claimed that she knew where the dwarves were, and Frodo was content to follow wherever she led. They walked for some distance in silence before she said, “I went to Mandos's Keep."

Frodo looked up at her in astonishment. “How did you get inside?”

“I turned back before I reached it. I had hoped to gain entrance to the Halls of Waiting and find my mother. I heard what Mithrandir said, but I thought, if there was slightest chance . . . . “

“He wouldn’t deceive you. If there were a way, he would help you find it.” Frodo cast about for words of comfort. “If he says it is not to be done, then it isn’t.”

She closed her eyes and nodded curtly. “I know.”

“I'm sorry,” said Frodo gently.

“I was very young when she died.” Her steps slowed, and the look in her eyes was far-away. “She was a wine merchant, and we were bringing the barrels through the Greenwood. We were set upon by thieves outside the kingdom’s gates.” Frodo saw her hand stretch back to touch the curve of her bow, as if to reassure herself that it was still there. “I do not believe the Men intended to kill us. But my mother drew her sword, and one of them fired an arrow into her heart. They took to their horses and fled without taking anything.

“A guard found us, headed by King Thranduil; I did not recognize him. I must have looked like a wild thing, half-mad with my grief. I held my mother’s bow with an arrow pointed at his throat and told him I should kill him if he came closer to us.” She smiled a little, and the corners of her lips trembled. “He asked me if I would like to come stay in his palace. He was kinder in those days, less hardened."

"Did you go?" Frodo asked, though he already knew the answer.

Tauriel looked out over the trees, her face distant. "I have never been blind to his faults, as they are many. He is as unforgiving as he is strong, as prideful as he is clever, and there is greed in his heart. For all his flaws I loved him and served him gladly for the mercy he showed an elfling.

"I did go with him. He buried my mother with all the honours of a king and kept his word; I was raised in his household by one of his couriers, to become a member of his Guard when I was grown. Aratha was good to me, and I did come to care for her, in time. But I could not love her like I loved my mother.”

“I'm sure she didn't expect you to."

“Maybe not,” she said. “She wept when I told her I was sailing West. She begged me not to go, but I would not hear her. All I could think was of myself, and how weary I was, and how I longed to be among my family again. I left her alone. It was a poor repayment for her kindness.”

Frodo felt she would neither heed nor appreciate more empty assurances, but he shifted to walk a little closer to her and felt some of the tension leave her.

“I went to the Keep. I looked up at the walls and knew what my mother would say if she saw I had given up before my time was spent. When I see her again, I thought, I could not face her, nor go to the Halls of Waiting with pride, if I fell without a fight. And so I turned around and came back.”

“I’m glad you did,” Frodo said. “I should have missed you.” When she smiled at him, he ventured to add, “And I’m very glad you came to find me. I don’t think I’ve eaten for an entire day!”

Tauriel laughed. It was a pale, half-hearted sort of laugh, but Frodo was glad to hear it. “I do not think you shall starve, for the camp is not much further. You need not thank me. Truth be told, I was glad for an excuse to stay away a while longer. I do not know what I will say to Kíli.”

“The same things you've said to me? He will forgive you, if he is as fond of you as he seems. Family is very important to dwarves. He will understand why you left.”

She tilted her head curiously. “Are all hobbits so wise as you?”

Pleased, Frodo turned away to hide his reddening cheeks. “We’ve been called many things, but wise is not usually one of them.” His attention was captured then by a wisp of grey smoke, trailing boldly in the clear sky. “Do you see that?"

“Someone has left a beacon for us.” She quickened her steps with fresh energy, and Frodo hastened to keep pace. “Come then, Master Frodo -- we will find our camp, I shall speak to Kíli, and you may have your dinner!”

* * *

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Fârfil’s Knot: a wedding braid that is looped at the end and knotted rather than tied off cleanly. Named after an ancient Longbeard king whose queen was killed on the battlefield, it signifies lost love/long separation from a loved one/mourning for a fallen spouse. According to legend, Fârfil was so overcome by the death of Rea that he vowed never to undo his wedding braid, as a tribute to her. (After the death of a spouse, wedding braids are typically undone when the mourning period has ended, to show that a dwarf is ready to emerge from solitude and rejoin the community. A widowed dwarf, however, will generally continue to wear a spousal bead in remembrance of their loved one.)
> 
> Fârfil’s Knot is a symbol of steadfast devotion when hope of a love being returned (figuratively or literally) is lost. 
> 
> [2] The original title for this chapter was going to be “In Which Absolutely Nothing Exciting Happens But Everybody Talks About Their *~ Feelings ~*”


	7. The Mount of Manwë

 

 

* * *

 CHAPTER SIX

* * *

_THORIN_

* * *

 

 

AS SUDDENLY AS HE had vanished, young Frodo returned to the camp the next morning with the elf at his side. An excited clamour rose among Thorin’s kin, and the poor hobbit was swarmed. A residual strain eased from Thorin’s shoulders at the sight of Frodo hale and unharmed, if rather flustered by the commotion.

Óin had elbowed through the ranks and was now insistently trying to peer into the hobbit’s ears and nose, lamenting that he’d no doubt managed to catch cold spending a night away from the fire’s warmth; Frodo, spluttering and blushing, was vainly attempting to fend him off. Sitting on an overturned log with his ever-present pipe, Gandalf watched the chaos unfold with evident enjoyment. He caught Thorin’s eye and gave him a merry wink.

Wisely, Thorin kept his distance. Once everyone had calmed, however, he could not resist approaching Frodo himself and inquiring if the little lad was indeed as unhurt as he appeared.

Frodo, still apple-cheeked, assured him he was and apologized very earnestly for giving them all a fright.

“No harm done,” Thorin said gruffly, and he was rewarded with a smile.

“Come have some breakfast, Frodo,” Bofur called, uncovering the pot of porridge they’d left to warm over the embers of last night’s fire. “You must be hungry.”

“In a moment, please and thank you!” Frodo said, and he nodded politely to Thorin before scurrying to Gandalf's side. They conferred in hushed voices, and then Gandalf drew the hobbit into a gentle embrace before shooing him away to his breakfast.

When the furor had passed and everyone was content once more, Gandalf tamped his pipe and called the Company together. Mount Taniquetil, he told them, was now only a short distance away; if they left at dawn on the morrow, they could begin their ascent that very afternoon. He advised them to spend one more evening resting and conserving their strength, for it was a considerable climb to the peak.

The thought of being so close to their goal brought renewed determination to them all. Packs were adjusted and distributed for weight, food and water sufficient for a long climb were gathered and shared, and their furs readied for the cooler weather of the heights. In no time at all they were prepared for the last leg of their journey, and Thorin was left with nothing to do. He even applied himself to a little mending when he found a tear in Frerin’s cloak, but that was soon finished and his restlessness would not let him sit idle. He was in no humour for conversation and too anxious to sleep. He circled the camp, stepping out again and again to look out at the horizon, as if the mountain might  appear before his eyes.

The thought of bringing his supplications to Manwë, king of the Valar, was not frightening to Thorin. Though he had a healthy respect for the keepers of Valinor, everything he had seen and encountered in his travels thus far had exhausted his reserves of wonder. He was impatient to be done. His only real concern was that Manwë would keep them there for a while, rather than sending them on their way with their cure. Thorin longed now to leave and see their quest fulfilled, though in his darkest thoughts he feared its end for what he might find there.

As he prowled aimlessly around the camp, his mind turned again and again to the one task he had left unfulfilled. It was not a pleasant one, and he had long pushed it aside. With nothing to occupy his mind or hands, and with their journey nearly at its end, there would be no better opportunity.

That evening, when supper was eaten and the camp bedded down, he cordially asked to speak with the hobbit. Frodo seemed surprised by the request, and quite curious, but he betrayed no nervousness as he walked with Thorin a short distance away from the fireside.

“I have neglected to give this to you, Master Baggins,” Thorin began, once he was assured of their privacy. “I prepared it the night after we escaped the dragon’s lair, but I did not know how to speak of it to you.” From the pocket within his tunic, he withdrew a thick, oiled lock of his own hair, bound with a tough leather thong. It had been a cumbersome weight in his pocket for too long. “It is payment for a debt of honour,” he said formally, offering the neat braid to Frodo.

The halfling took it by rote instinct and looked at it as if he hadn’t the faintest notion of what to do with it.

“It is a reparation. As Bilbo’s closest kinsman, I ought to have repaid my debt as soon as I met you. Forgive me for tarrying. I did not know if I would have to explain the circumstances to you, and I could not find the words.”

Frodo's eyes widened a little, and the look that came over him was guarded and uncertain. “If you’re speaking of what you did to Bilbo on the battlements, I know about it already.”

Thorin refused to wince -- he would face his crimes with the dignity of a son of Durin. “When your uncle defended me from my enemy’s blade, I swore that he would always have my protection. I broke my oath the moment I raised my hand to him in anger. You would be within your rights to ask for another braid on his behalf.” He grasped the slender hunting knife in his boot, intent on making good on the promise, but the hobbit cried out in alarm.

“Oh, no, no! No, I don’t . . . thank you, but I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you.” He thrust the lock toward Thorin plaintively. “Please, I don’t want your hair.”

A heavy stone dropped into Thorin’s belly. “You would refuse it?” he asked, far too harshly.

“I don’t mean to offend you! I only . . . .” Frodo uttered a squeak of frustration and wrung his hands. “Hobbits don’t . . . we don’t expect reparations if we aren’t the injured party.”

Would the ways of halflings never cease to be absurd? “You do not?”

“No! Well, that is to say, family feuds do happen in the Shire sometimes, though very rarely . . . . Sam did tell me once that the Gamgees and the Hobbiton Burblossoms were at odds for generations over accusations of cheating at a tuber-growing contest. Old Marl Burblossom was  convinced that Gaffer Gamgee’s great-great-aunt had salted his vegetable garden and tried to have her disqualified from the competition. It caused a great scandal. Why, the Gamgees didn’t invite the Burblossoms to a birthday party for nearly a century! Can you imagine? It was a nasty business.”

Thorin sought, and failed, to find an appropriate response.

“Well, in any case,” Frodo said stoutly, “what good would it do to be angry at you for an offense that wasn't done to me? One, I should add, that Bilbo forgave you for?” He pressed the braid back into Thorin’s hands. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“I nearly took his life.”

“I don’t deny that it was very bad of you. But you were sick, and I can see that you are sorry for it.” He sighed, sitting down on a nearby boulder. His toes did not quite brush the grass. “A friend once told me that it is not our mistakes that define us, but rather how we choose to make amends that speaks most truly of who we are.”

“One of the wizard’s speeches?"

Frodo’s eyes lit and his teeth flashed in a grin, and for just a moment, Thorin saw that perhaps he had once been a very merry lad who had not had shadows in his laughter. “I’m afraid it was an _elf_ friend.”

Thorin grunted.

Frodo kicked his furred feet and wriggled aside to clear a spot on his boulder. “There was a Man I was once knew -- Boromir of Gondor.”

Thorin took the offered seat. “The name is familiar.”

“He was the son of the steward of Gondor, and the ninth member of our Fellowship. Now the tale is told that he perished in battle defending my cousins.” He fidgeted and then seemed to settle with another sigh. “That is true, but it’s a half-truth. He died protecting them after he tried to take the Ring from me.”

Thorin was struck by a vision of some violent, snake-eyed Man brandishing a sword at Frodo's neck.

“He frightened me, and threatened me. He looked half-mad, and if I had not run away, I believe he might have killed me. For all that, I didn’t blame him then, and I remember him fondly now. In that moment, he was not himself. He could be harsh, and often arrogant, but he was a good man of honour and courage, and he was kind to my cousins. He would never have hurt me had the Ring not poisoned his mind.”

They sat quietly for a while.

“It’s a pretty night,” Frodo said softly, when their silence had grown deep and comfortable. “Do dwarves ever watch the stars?”

Thorin turned his face to the night sky to hide his amusement. “Do you think we never leave our caverns and halls? Some watch them, and some do not. Our old poets were fond of them. Their light has been compared to every kind of gem and precious stone.”

“We look for shapes in them, like we do with clouds,” Frodo said. “It’s a game, of sorts, to see who can pick out the constellations first.” He pointed at what, to Thorin’s untrained eye, looked like a blurry cluster of light. “See? There is the pumpkin, and the turnip, and the soup ladle . . . oh, and there’s the vine of grapes. That one’s very hard to see if it’s a cloudy night.”

“Are all of your constellations food?”

There was a pause. “Most of them.”

Thorin bit his lip to stem the chuckle rising in his chest.

“Thorin?”

“Yes, Master Baggins?”

“I will take your braid. I’ll carry it safely back to the cottage and then you may give it to Bilbo yourself.” He held out one small palm, and with great ceremony, Thorin laid his shorn hair upon it. Frodo bound the braid carefully in a handkerchief before tucking it into his coat, and this time Thorin did not suppress his smile.

“You are very like him, sometimes,” he said.

“I'll consider it a compliment.”

“It was intended as one.” Thorin came to his feet, his task done and his heart the lighter for it. “Goodnight, Frodo. Rest well, if we are to scale our mountain tomorrow.”

 

*****

 

They left the plateau at dawn, walking in an orderly line down into the valley. The woodlands and grassy banks gave way to a cobblestone road, set with small flecks of silver and mica. A pleasant wind stirred the clouds overhead, carrying on it the scent of tree-bark and clean water.

Gandalf had spoken truthfully; they had not travelled longer than an hour before they crested a rolling hill to find the lush mountain valley on the other side. At its center a tremendous silver peak stretched toward the sky, wreathed magnificently in smoky white clouds. At Thorin’s side, Gandalf exhaled sharply and came to a sudden halt. The Company clustered around him, some rising to their toes for a better view. "Mount Taniquetil. The highest mountain in Arda."

“Beautiful,” Dís breathed, and Thorin had to agree.

“Have you been here before, Gandalf?” asked Frodo, craning to see over Bifur’s shoulder.

The wizard laughed. “If I have a home,” he said, “it is this mountain. From the moment of creation, I served the Keeper of the Skies and the Keeper of the Stars. I dwelled with them here for many, many years, watching from its peak as the world took shape.” He breathed deeply of the air. “I did not realize how very much I missed it.”

With their destination before them like a shining pillar, the Company went down into the valley below. Ori, never one to ignore an opportunity, was pressing Gandalf for more tales as they walked. “You must know Manwë well.”

“I do, though I have not seen him since I went to Middle-earth. It was Manwë who first sent me there, along with my brothers.” Gandalf looked thoughtful, and then he chuckled again. “I did not want to go.”

“Whyever not?” Ori asked incredulously.

“Because I was afraid. And that was why he said I must.”

Dís, who had been listening attentively, raised her brows at this. “Are you certain he will help us?” Her face was pinched with worry. Thorin felt a rush of affection for his sister, who had never met nor loved Bilbo Baggins and yet had become as invested in the outcome of their journey as any of them.

“Will he be displeased with us if we arrive without notice?”

“I would not trouble yourself, Frodo. The Valar are not hardened against the sorrows of the world. Even Mandos was moved to pity by the love of Beren and Lúthien -- though I do not see how any soul could have been untouched by them.”

Ori's face lit with amazement. “Did you meet the Lady Lúthien, Gandalf?”

“Indeed I did, and a fairer sight I have not seen since. Nor, for that matter, a more fearsome warrior. The stories do not do her justice.”

“No stories ever could,” Tauriel said (sounding rather smug, to Thorin’s ears) from where she walked with Kíli and Fíli. “All elflings hope for two things as they grow: to have the honour of Eärendil and the courage of Lúthien.”

Gandalf gave his staff a contemplative twirl and looked down at Frodo, who trotted alongside him. “It was Manwë who gave his blessing for Mandos’s gift of choice to Lúthien. He is not the mightiest, but all of the Valar look to him for guidance, for his chiefest strength is his kindness. He values the sweet air of his mountain more than all the great treasures of Arda together. His compassion is so great, in truth, that it has blinded him.”

“Blinded him?” Kíli repeated, frowning.

When Gandalf spoke again, it was with the eerie cadence of well-learned recitation. “As the Ainulindalë stitched Eru Ilúvatar’s perfect creation together, already it began to unravel. Melkor, most beautiful and powerful among the Valar, became corrupted by the breadth of his own strength. He saw that he was mighty, and jealousy of his Maker consumed him. As his envy grew, so too did his contempt for his brothers and sisters, who were content to follow Eru’s will. His heart was blackened and hardened, and he forgot what it was to love them. He crept in the shadows and wound notes of discord into the Ainulindalë.

“The Valar were distraught to find their song corrupted. It did not take them long to discover what Melkor had done. But Manwë loved his brother and had so little understanding of what it was to be wicked that he gave to Melkor many chances for redemption. For Ages, Melkor intervened in the fates and wrought destruction on Arda and beyond. He sought at every turn to defy the will of Eru. He made the orcs and goblins, twisted mockeries of The Children, and cursed all that was fair and good. Tulkas the Warrior, last of the Valar to descend, realized what Manwë would not: Melkor had become Morgoth, warped beyond all forgiveness.

“Mere imprisonment, far in the deepest depths of Mandos’s Halls, was not enough to contain Morgoth's evil. Tulkas took counsel with Varda, who kept watch from her Starry Realm and saw more clearly, and together they went to Manwë to proclaim that Melkor was lost. It took much persuasion, but at last it was resolved that Morgoth could not be redeemed. Manwë cast his brother, with many cries of grief, into the Void.” An old pain deepened the well-worn furrows of Gandalf’s face. “It was a wound that not even Nienna’s tears could soothe. The Valar do not sit high on their thrones, indifferent to the fates of other beings. You do not need to be afraid, any of you. Manwë will hear you.”

Though it was a familiar story that Thorin had heard before, it had never seemed so immediate. He pitied Manwë. He knew what it was to be betrayed by one beloved.

“If Taniquetil is your home, will you go back there to stay?” Frodo asked, in a very subdued voice.

“I am happy enough to make a nuisance of myself in Valmar for the time being. Someday, yes, I will return to Manwë’s household, for I have been away too long. But it will not be for some time. I have unfinished business still.” The wizard smiled, brushing his hand through Frodo's hair. “I could not leave you and Bilbo now, could I?”

It seemed they had scarcely descended the ridge before the base of the mountain was in reach. To Thorin, who found beauty in the sharp peaks and hollows of mountain stone, Taniquetil rivalled the majesty of his own adored Erebor. At its lowest levels, the rock split in a series of magnificent waterfalls, likely fed by an underground spring. Above the veil of water, the mountain was cut into wide terraces as lush and green as hanging gardens before the foliage parted to reveal a cap of mica-flecked stone. At the mountain’s base, the cobblestone road came to an abrupt end. In its place was a narrow path spiralling up the mountain and beyond the scope of Thorin’s vision. It was a formidable sight.

Frerin shielded his eyes, squinted, and uttered a low oath. “Can you see the summit, Thorin?” he whispered.

“No.”

“ _Is_ there a summit?”

“You shall find out soon enough,” Gandalf said, and with a hand on each of their shoulders, he steered them forward. “For now, my dear dwarves -- and hobbit, and elf -- we climb.”

 

 

* * *

 

* * *

_FRODO_

 

* * *

 

 

In the last years of his life in Middle-earth, Frodo had scaled far too many mountains to take much pleasure in the ascent of Taniquetil. The road was smoothly-paved and rose gradually enough that it was not too great an effort to maintain a rapid pace. Like most hobbits, he was also not overly fond of heights, but he was kept largely sheltered from the sight of the dizzying drop; Bifur and Bofur, determined not to lose him again, had hemmed him firmly in between them.  

The wind grew stronger the higher they rose. Eventually Bofur was obliged to keep one hand firmly planted on his head, lest his hat take flight, and Frodo, as the lightest of their party by far, had to struggle against the headwind whenever they turned into it.

Frodo had no notion of how long they climbed, but eventually the peak leveled off. Built into the tallest spire of the mountain was a towering citadel of golden rock -- sandstone, perhaps, or something very like it. It was very simply-hewn, merged into the mountain itself with only a large glass dome and a row of enormous pillars to draw attention from its staid square walls. As they emerged onto the flat, Frodo saw a small town behind the citadel, its silver-thatched roofs and spires scarcely visible over the high walls that surrounded it.

With no hesitation, Gandalf strode toward the long flight of steps that led to the citadel’s wooden door, overlaid in silver with the image of a scrolled tree. He stopped just before the first step and knelt. Thorin, who had been following Gandalf, lowered himself to his knees as well, and with that the other dwarves hastened to follow suit.

Frodo had to steady himself as he squatted down, and he was surprised to see his own fingers shaking on the ground in front of him. Crouched beside him, Ori reached over and gave his wrist a subtle, reassuring brush.

They waited there, silent and tense, for only a moment before a shadow fell across the rock. Unable to help himself, Frodo peered up to see an eagle drifting serenely on the wind overhead. Its feathers shone gold in the sun, and as if flew past them, the door of the citadel opened. A tall, slight figure emerged, and Frodo’s heart leapt.

Manwë, Lord of Air and Winds, and chief among the Valar, took the aspect of an elf, though his brown cloak was cut in the style of Men. He bore a sceptre studded with blue stones; the fingers holding it were tipped in long tapered nails, like talons. He descended the steps, and as he came closer Frodo realized with a start that his glossy dark hair was not hair at all but slender feathers.

Gandalf lifted his head at his lord's approach, and Frodo saw that his hands shook too.

Manwë drew Gandalf to his feet and embraced him. “My beloved Olórin.” His voice was the rumbling of faraway thunder and the sighing flutter of the wind in the trees. He clasped Gandalf’s face in his claws, brushing over his white beard with a hint of a smile. “Rise, all of you. What a curious collection of guests you have brought me: elves and dwarves and hobbits travelling together.”

Frodo’s breath caught as Manwë’s eyes met his. They were not the eyes of Men, or of elves, nor dwarves or hobbits either -- they were the unearthly golden eyes of an Eagle.

“You have come for the sake of the first Ringbearer."

For one dreadful moment, speech was beyond Frodo; he remembered Gandalf’s story and bore up his courage. “We have travelled very far on behalf of my uncle, my lord,” he said. “We seek Ilúvatar to ask for his mercy.”

“No one may pass through the Timeless Realm, mortal or otherwise, before his time.” Manwë's gaze turned to Gandalf, and Frodo saw that his friend was startled. “You have been away from us too long, Olórin. There is no passage between Valinor and the Timeless Realm now that Arda has been divided.”

Frodo saw Thorin’s eyes close in despair. Desperate panic took him and he dropped to his knees again, bowing until his forehead touched the earth. “Please, my lord! He is very ill.”

Manwë lifted Frodo’s chin. It was an earnest struggle to meet his gaze, for his face was too beautiful and terrible to look upon directly. “There is a great debt to be paid to you, Frodo, son of Drogo, for what you have done. I will tell you this: the Ring is gone. It has no power over its Bearers.”

Frodo trembled. “I . . . I don't understand.”

“The Ring has no hold on you."

He heard the words, but they were senseless, meaningless. He felt Gandalf’s hand at his back, steady and warning, and he took a breath to clear his head.

“What of Bilbo?” Thorin demanded, and his voice was strained. “Have you no answer for us?”

Frodo winced, but Manwë did not seem angry. With his pale eyes he watched Thorin, who did not bend his proud head under the scrutiny. With a flick of his robes and a stir in the air, Manwë began to withdraw. “I will confer with my lady wife and see what is to be done. In the meantime you may stay here and rest within my halls. I offer food and drink and my hospitality.”

"Come along," Gandalf said, and he helped Frodo to his feet.

Manwë led them through the door and into a vast entrance hall of stone, lit with dozens of silver lanterns and windows that stretched from floor to ceiling. He directed them to a door at the hall’s end and departed with a bow, bearing Gandalf away with him. The dwarves began to stir, murmuring amongst themselves, but Frodo stood still, feeling as though he’d been swept over by a violent gale. Balin noticed him first and turned back, drawing the attention of the others.

"Let’s not give up hope now, laddie." He put his arm around Frodo's shoulders. "Not when we’ve come so far.”

“Yes, surely this is good news," said Fíli.

“He’s a strong wee thing, and we'll get our answers soon enough. Don't you fret about him," Bofur added.

They passed through the door into a truly astonishing chamber. To Frodo’s eyes, the glass-domed room looked like nothing so much as one of Olo Proudfoot’s famed aviaries. Birds of all shapes and sizes flitted about the high ceiling: proud hawks and gentle little jays, gulls and mockingbirds and ravens, common grey and brown birds and unfamiliar birds with plumage of magnificent jewelled hues. There were birds as wide across as Gandalf's hat and tiny flitting birds the length of Frodo’s thumb.

The chamber echoed with sweet songs and calls, and Frodo felt a measure of his tension fade. He was here, in the Halls of the most revered Vala in Arda, and Manwë had given his word to seek an answer. If he could not have hope here, he would have hope nowhere. He listened to the birdsong, and for the moment, he let his worries be soothed.

Under an elaborate tent of cloth-of-gold was a low, round table, surrounded by a profusion of cushions and silks. Twelve golden plates and goblets were laid around it. No sooner had they seated themselves than a beautiful white owl fluttered into the tent, a stoppered decanter of red wine clasped in its talons. With a rather lofty hoot, it offered the bottle to Balin, who took it with an obliging nod and a word of thanks. After a moment, a brown barn-owl followed, bearing another bottle. Frodo could not help but smile as a flock of chattering magpies brought them platters of cheese and fruit and hot, crusty breads, suspended in gossamer netting that they clutched in their little claws.

“It’s like Beorn’s house!” Fíli accepted a butter knife from a tiny bird that was puffing under its weight. “Do you remember his animals?”

“And the hounds that walked on two legs,” Kíli hooted.

Before long, their feathered servers had overfilled the table with good things. The food was delicious and the wine heady and tart, and the melodious twittering of the birds made for the most pleasant sort of dinner-music. As they ate and drank, a fat, speckled little sparrow made itself comfortable in Frodo’s breast pocket, and happily exchanged a warbling song for crumbs.

The dwarves seemed equally charmed by their attendants. If he hadn’t been told once that the denizens of Erebor had long revered birds as valued pets and messengers alike, Frodo might have been startled by Ori cooing as he patted a bold bluejay that had helped itself to his plate, or Balin indulgently allowing a robin to peck at the snowy strands of his beard. Certainly he would have been amazed to see Thorin with a raven perched on his shoulder, speaking to it softly as he fed it a generous palmful of plump red berries.

It was without a doubt the strangest dinner party Frodo had ever attended.

After eating their fill, and with nothing else to do until Manwë or Gandalf returned, they settled down to rest. Brimming with wine and good food, Frodo curled up on the silken cushions, the sparrow already dozing in his pocket, and was asleep almost before his eyes closed.

He did not know how long he slept, but when he woke everyone was asleep, and slender silver lanterns hung at the corners of the tent. He rubbed his eyes and shifted, producing a sleepy, indignant little chirp from the sparrow. Stroking its downy head apologetically, he stretched, careful not to move too suddenly, for Tauriel slept soundly at his back with Kíli’s head propped against her shoulder. Frodo yawned and blinked; he pulled up the blanket over his chest, and realized that it was Thorin’s fur mantle. Thorin himself was lying at the other end of the tent in a pile with his brother and sister and snoring loudly. Frodo touched the soft fur, smiled to himself, and drifted back to sleep.

It wasn’t until the birds had cleared away the remains of a hearty breakfast the next morning that Gandalf returned, ducking into the tent with a pigeon clinging to the top of his staff.

“Come now,” he said, with no preamble. “Thorin, Frodo, come with me. Tauriel, you as well. Manwë has called for you.”

Frodo hurried to make himself presentable, shooing the sparrow away, straightening his coat, flicking stray crumbs from his breeches, and bemoaning his lack of a brush. Now that it was time to have his answer after so many long weeks of travel and doubt he found that his nerves were fraying. What would Manwë say? What if he had no good news, or no solution at all? He startled as a brisk hand smoothed down his curls, and he twisted around to find Dís behind him.

“There,” she said kindly, and she tucked another curl behind his ear. “Have courage for your uncle now.”

He nodded, throat too thick for words. After a murmured conference with Balin and Frerin, Thorin joined them, and Gandalf led the three of them from the chamber.

 

****

 

In a lush courtyard at the citadel’s centre, Manwë waited for them. As Frodo and the others arrived, he nodded to each of them and politely inquired if there had been enough food and adequate bedding and if they had rested well.

For once, Frodo had no patience for pleasantries; in his mind he resolved to thank Tauriel later for graciously answering Manwë’s inquiries when he could not.

“Be easy,” Manwë said, and Frodo thought with mortification that perhaps he had not hidden his impatience so well as he thought. “Yestereve I called a council with my brothers and sisters so that we might send you home with hope. We are in agreement. Listen now: take a flask of the headwaters of Sister Nienna’s river from the valley below this mountain, and seal it securely. Carry it back to your kinsman. Have him drink of it, and he may find his cure within himself.”

Silence greeted this pronouncement.

A red flush was rising under Thorin’s beard. "If this is a jest, it is a poor one."

As one, Gandalf and Tauriel glared at the dwarf. But Frodo had no attention to spare for any of them. He was thinking of Nienna and her white hood. He thought of the cool weight of the river-stone in his pocket. He remembered feeling unbound, how the numb, bleak shell of pain had cracked inside him beside the water, and suddenly he understood.

“I couldn’t forgive myself,” he said aloud. Thorin and Tauriel turned to look at him; Frodo closed his eyes against their stares. “I couldn’t let go of what I had done. The Ring was gone but I couldn’t let go. That’s why. That’s why I left. It was me all along.”

Manwë was watching him again, and his gaze was full of tender sorrow.

“Oh,” Frodo said, and he hid his face in his hands.

There had always been pauses in Bilbo’s stories, things left unsaid, blank lines on the page. Bilbo had turned away in horror the night he gave Frodo the mithril shirt; how bitterly he had wept as the Fellowship left Rivendell. In some way Frodo had known that his uncle felt responsible for finding the Ring, that he believed that he had passed on an unfair burden.

The Ring had not been holding onto them. They had been holding onto it. Little wonder that both of them had been eaten up by their own grief.

“Frodo,” Thorin said. His hands hovered in the air between them. “What is it?”

“It will work, Thorin. The water will cure him.” Frodo knelt at Manwë’s feet and took up the hem of the Vala’s cloak. He kissed it with all the gratitude in his heart. “Thank you,” he said. “ _Thank you_.”

“I have done nothing.” He drew Frodo up and touched his lips to Frodo’s brow; his skin was cool, the brush of his feathers soft, and warmth spread down to the tips of Frodo’s toes. “A thousand blessings on your head. For what you have done, may you know peace and contentment until your mortal years are spent.”

He released Frodo then and turned to the others. “Thorin, son of Thráin,” he said, “do not despair. Brother Aulë is as unmoving as stone, but his love is enduring in equal measure. The winds of home do not change course.”

Thorin bowed low.

“Tauriel, daughter of Taulién, I bear you a small token from my lady wife.” From Manwë’s talons dangled a crystal pendant that glowed with an unfaltering golden light. “It is a beam from the favourite star of she whom you call Elbereth Gilthoniel -- light from one lover of the stars to another.”

Tauriel accepted the gift with trembling hands.

“You may stay as long as you choose as my guests,” Manwë said, “but I suspect you wish to return to Valmar.”

“I would not wait,” Thorin said, “but let it be Frodo’s choice.”

“I would like to leave today, my lord,” Frodo replied at once. The shock was beginning to ebb and joy and relief swept in to take its place. He was filled with impatience and eager to be away. Oh, that he could whisk himself back to Bilbo this instant!

“As you wish, so it will be done,” Manwë said gravely. He extended his hands out before him, palms turned to the sky. The amber of his eyes sparked like kindling. The clouds overhead stirred and the air around them grew heavy, like a humid summer day before a rainstorm. A gust of warm wind fluttered his cloak, darting playfully through the courtyard and ruffling Frodo’s hair.

“Call for your friends,” Manwë declared, and below his flickering eyes, his smile was soft. “I will send the easterly winds at your backs to hurry you home.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hypothetically, if there were to be a rather . . . explicit one-shot sequel to this fic, would that be something that people would be interested in? Hypothetically.


	8. The City of Bells

CHAPTER SEVEN

* * *

 

_THORIN_

* * *

* * *

 

 

IT WAS THE WORK of mere minutes to gather the Company together. Though Kíli and Frerin pestered him for news of the council with Lord Manwë, Thorin would not spare them more than brusque reassurances and an admonition to hasten their steps; his every thought was fixed upon the elvish city and the little cottage on the coast Frodo had described so fondly.

Frodo seemed just as impatient to be away, and his obvious agitation did more to hurry the Company along than any of Thorin’s reproaches. The hobbit was bobbing about and fretting over collecting enough water.

“We’ll worry about that when we get to it,” Balin said, reeling him in with a tolerant hand. “I think we’ve enough water-skins between us.”

With everyone corralled, the Company followed Gandalf through the winding halls and out onto the steps where Manwë waited for them.

“Are you ready to return, Frodo Baggins?” he asked, and the hobbit crimped himself into an earnest kowtow and declared, "Very ready, my lord, please and thank you.”

“Then I shall send you on your way. Collect the water as I have told you, but do not stop to rest. Thorin Oakenshield, Brother Ulmo has crafted three boats to bear you and your kin on the Sea back to Aulë’s Halls. They will be waiting for you in the Bay of Eldamar when you should have need of them.”

Thorin bowed and repeated his own thanks.

To each of them, Manwë gave his blessings and well-wishes. The clouds overhead began to churn, the winds sped around their feet, and the air seemed to draw together with coiled tension. “Farewell, Ringbearer! Farewell, King Under the Mountain! Farewell, Daughter of Taulién!” He raised his hand, and the skies opened in a shrieking gale. “Farewell, my Olórin, and may you return home to us soon.”

“Walk!” Gandalf exclaimed over the howling of the winds. He was clutching his fluttering hat to his head and looked entirely too gleeful. “Take a step, and keep walking!”

They did, and it was the strangest sensation Thorin had ever experienced in his long life. He walked, yet his feet did not touch the earth, and the ground shrank below them. Each step felt that it spanned a mile, every movement as buoyant and effortless as a stroke through calm water. Through the winds, he heard Kíli and Fíli hollering in delight, and he was nearly tempted to join them. How astonishing it was to be as weightless as a leaf carried on the wind!

In a few strides they were halfway down the mountain; a few strides more brought them to valley below. The magnificent waterfalls bubbled and churned beneath their boots.

“Your water-skins!” Gandalf said. “Do not stop walking, but uncork them and let them drift through the falls as you pass.”

Thorin wrested the stopper from his skin and let it dangle from its strap as the spray of water neared. It skimmed fluidly through it, and when he drew it up, it sloshed heavy and full. He sealed it and heaved it back over his shoulder.

Ahead of him, Frodo was having some difficulty. The heft of the water-skin and the lightness of his own figure kept pitching him forward, windmilling in the air, though he struggled valiantly to stay upright. Finally the elf, who was nearest him, slung the poor hobbit onto her back like a furry-footed knapsack.

Down they passed into the mountain valley, over the plains, over rocky cliffs and thick brush and fields of blooming flowers and grains. They passed still, mossy lakes and fierce rapids, walled cities of gold, fields of snow and barren, arid deserts of shifting amber sand. They passed the green canopies of forests and trimmed gardens, hills and vales, and they watched as the solitary peak of Taniquetil diminished on the horizon. All the while the river glittered below their feet like a beacon, guiding the winds east.

As they drifted over a forest of towering oaks, the wind began to slow. The current bore them gently down to the road that curled around the wood, and at last their boots touched down. It felt odd to be on solid ground once more, though Frerin, green in the face, looked as though he were tempted to kiss it. Frodo uttered an audible sigh of relief as Gandalf helped him down from the elf’s shoulders.

Kíli was breathless with laughter, his cheeks wind-burned. “Gandalf, could we do that again?”

“Once was enough,” Dís said, her own face rosy pink.

“Look at those beasties,” Bofur exclaimed, shielding his eyes from the sun as he squinted up at the colourful canopy. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen trees so tall. What is this place?”

Thorin's attention was diverted by rustling in the trees; a dim light bobbed beyond the cover of brush. He caught his sister’s eye over the heads of the others and let his hand fall to Dragonsbane’s hilt. Immediately she stepped up to stand beside him, sheltering the lads from the sight of the forest, and her fingers hovered casually over the handle of her war-axe. Frerin was too far away to call over without attracting notice, but he was standing near Frodo, and Gandalf was close enough to ably defend them both.

His caution was overly hasty. At the next breath, an elf-maid in a silver cape emerged from the woods, a lantern aloft in her hand. Frodo let out a glad cry. “Lady Galadriel!”

The famed Elf-Witch of Lothlórien -- Thorin had read mention of her in so many of the ancient poems that she was a figure of legend more than anything else. The witch appeared harmless enough (soft and frail in the way of elves) and her gold-spun hair, he had to admit, shone as purely as diamond. Still, there was an unsettling depth in her eyes, and Thorin knew enough to be wary of that piercing gaze. He leant to the side to shuffle Dís behind him and did not flinch when she elbowed him roughly in the back.

“Welcome,” the elf said coolly, and she did not bow. Her attention flickered first to Frodo, and the indifference of her countenance eased into something warmer. “I see your journey has served you well.”

Frodo beamed at her, hoisting his overfilled skin aloft. “We’ve brought water for Bilbo!"

“I see too that you are resolved to waste no time. Take the path to Valmar, dear one. You will not find your uncle at the cottage on the Bay. He is dwelling with Elrond.”

Frodo’s face fell. “Did something happen?” he asked, and Thorin caught his breath.

“We wished to have him closer while you were away. He knows of your quest. We have been following your progress, for Lord Lórien gifted me many visions. He is eager to see you -- all of you.”

Thorin’s heart stuttered.

The witch paused and lowered her lantern. She studied Frodo with a placid sort of curiosity. Something seemed to pass between them, and she smiled. “If that is truly what you wish, I will go ahead and bear the cure to him."

“Please,” said Frodo, surprising them all. “You will be quicker than us. Let him drink it in peace.”

To be so close and endure another delay. . . . “Frodo."

The hobbit's chin had a stubborn tilt. “I want to see him too, but solitude is what I needed most. I imagine it must be the same for him.”

Thorin nodded despite his gut's relentless churning. It was not his place to make demands. “As you say.”

Frodo addressed the wizard. “Will you go too? Tell him that I love him.”

“Of course,” said Gandalf.

“I shall see it done, Frodo,” the elf said. Her gaze fell to the rest of the Company, clutching their water-skins. “One draught ought to be enough.”

“There is no harm in being cautious, my lady," Gandalf said, as Frodo relinquished his water.

“And we both know you are always cautious, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf chuckled and held out his arm. Lady Galadriel fitted her delicate fingers into the crook of his elbow, and they strode into the woods without a word of farewell. They vanished, not even the sound of footsteps accompanying their retreat. The Company shuffled uneasily at being abandoned on the outskirts of an unfamiliar wood, but Thorin had no time or interest to spare for the bizarre behaviour of witches and wizards. There was a more pressing matter at hand.  

“Do you know the way to the city, Frodo?” he asked, and a hush fell over the others as they realized that their erstwhile guide had left them with no directions.

“I travelled this road with Gandalf when we left, but it was only the once,” Frodo confessed. His eyes drifted over to the elf, who stood before them with her bow and water-skin still in hand.

 _The indignities I endure for you, Burglar_ , Thorin thought, not without some irony. “Mistress Tauriel,” he said, “if you could lead us to the city, I would be in your debt.” Seeing the surprise on her face, he found that the sting of debasement was not so fierce as he had believed it would be. _Perhaps I truly am growing soft in my dotage._

“I can take you,” she replied. “It is not far.” She slung the strap of her skin across her back and walked with steps firm and sure, Frodo trotting along after her. One-by-one, the others began to follow. As Kíli passed by, he gave Thorin a grin as bright as a sunbeam, and Frerin, following behind him, was insufferably amused. Balin fell into step at his side.

“Steady on, laddie,” he murmured, and Thorin did his best not to hope.

 

*****

 

The city of Valmar was a vast cluster of lofty wooden buildings, terraces, and gardens, walled by the towering trees of an ancient forest. A series of slender wooden walkways stretched through the air from home to home, for the city had been built upon the banks of a tremendous lake, clear as crystal and smooth as glass.

The streets were silent, with few figures stirring on the bridges; the long boats bobbing on the surface of the water were empty. It was disquieting, and Bofur said as much.

“It is high noon.” Tauriel ushered them toward the central bridge, a wide wooden platform that stretched through the middle of the pond and splintered off into dozens of individual piers. “Everyone has gone home to eat and rest. The streets will be crowded again within the hour.”

“It’s beautiful,” Dís marvelled. Thorin was taken aback to find that he agreed. The architecture was too spindly, too frilly, too _elvish_ , and it lacked the majesty of a proper dwarf keep. Yet there was such a calm that laid over the city . . . . something old and settled and safe, as though this place had never been touched by war or illness.

“It is,” said the elf. “Just outside the city, there are springs that feed the lake. They separate into a series of rapids and make a soft, sweet sound when it’s quiet and the wind is right. It sounds almost like bells being struck.”

Dís leant on the bridge's railing to look into the water; the elf paused next to her. When his sister spoke, Thorin heard the wistfulness in her voice. “There is a bedrock found in Erebor that is easily worn away by trickling water. Small cracks form in the stone until winds begin to push through the holes, and it sounds like a chorus of a thousand voices.”

Thorin remembered those caverns. He remembered his mother taking him there as a lad and telling him that it was the singing of the mountain itself. How beautifully Erebor had sung in those days. He prayed it always would.

“I would have liked to have heard it myself," Tauriel said.

Dís drew back from the railing to continue on, but there was a small smile on her lips. “I believe you would have.”

The bridge led them past a market square, its stalls deserted but piled with fruits and bolts of cloth, past a quieter row of homes. Tauriel stopped before a palatial house flanked by hedged, flowering grounds. “This is the household of Lord Elrond,” she declared.

Scarcely had Bofur said “Do we knock?” before Frodo scurried up the stairs onto the sweeping veranda, tapped perfunctorily on the tall mahogany doors, and let himself inside, calling for Gandalf all the while.

There were a few chuckles as the rest of the Company followed, but Thorin, twisted up with nerves, could not bring himself to share in their amusement. The inside of the house was as airy as the outside, and as Fíli drew the door shut behind them, a familiar figure appeared at the top of the winding staircase.

“Upstairs, Frodo,” Lord Elrond said. “It is done. You will find them both in the Blue Chamber.”

Frodo was off like an arrow up the stairs, though apparently politeness was ingrained enough in hobbits as to oblige him to stop halfway up and bid a proper hello to his host before hurrying on. Elrond continued down the stairs to meet the rest of the company. The elf-lord looked unchanged by the years that had passed since last they met, tall and sober in his plain robes.

“Lord Elrond,” Thorin said gravely. Despite his meddling, the lord of Imladris had once offered his help freely, without expectation of favours in exchange. Thorin could not like Elrond, perhaps, but he could respect him.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” Elrond returned. “I had not expected to see you again. You and your companions are most welcome in my house.”

“A pleasure,” Balin said amiably. “Might we ask how Master Baggins is faring?”

“Quite well. I should be happy to tell you more, but I must return to him now. In the meantime, you may stay here and avail yourselves of whatever refreshments you desire.“ He turned his knowing gaze onto their party, a tiny glimmer of good humour in his eyes. “I only ask that you do not dance upon my tables. It haunts poor Lindir still.”

It was an unexpected kindness, and Thorin thanked him as graciously as he could. They were directed to a waiting chamber that led into the open air of the garden. Trays of bread and cheese and nuts were brought to them. Thorin could not eat, but he accepted a goblet of wine and restlessly paced the terrace, back and forth, back and forth.

He could not settle under the veiled glances his kin were giving him. He could not listen to the conversation, or taste the wine, or sit quietly on one of the long benches. He longed to move, to run, to fight, to do something to dissipate the hard knot in his chest. When he could bear it no longer, he brushed aside Frerin's look of concern and stepped back inside the hall. He thought to ask a servant to bring him news, but he found Frodo before him instead.

“I came to get some tea,” Frodo said, lifting the tray in his hands unnecessarily. “Uncle’s not . . . it’s not quite done yet after all. You may sit with me upstairs, if you like. It's difficult sitting alone and waiting. You’re not obliged to, of course -- I didn’t mean . . . .”

“I should be glad to.”

They sat on a bench in a small alcove opposite the door to Bilbo’s bedchamber. They shared the tea between them. It was an elvish blend, weak and overly sugared, but Thorin drank it anyway, and Frodo kept anxiously refilling his cup every time he took a sip.

“Aragorn told me once that Elrond was one of the finest healers in Middle-earth,” the hobbit said, fiddling with the teapot. He had been rambling almost without pause for breath, but Thorin had not interrupted. Talking seemed to comfort the lad. “Only his daughter Arwen was his equal. Bilbo couldn’t be in better hands. And Gandalf is there too. He always knows what to do. Nearly always.”

“Was it painful?” Thorin asked. The thought of Bilbo suffering beyond the door was difficult to endure.

“Pardon me?”

“The healing.”

“Oh, yes, of course. Or, no, it wasn’t. Not really. Not to my body, if that’s what you mean. I cried a great deal, and then I felt better.” He swung his feet, and then said, inexplicably, “That’s lovely.”

After a moment of confusion, Thorin realized where Frodo's gaze had fallen. Without being aware of it, he had been skimming his own hand over the braid behind his ear, fingering the wooden sunflower bead.

“May I?” Frodo asked, clearly eager for a distraction.

Awkwardly, Thorin dipped his head. He felt Frodo very carefully lift the edge the plait to examine the bead. It felt uncomfortable to have someone look at it after so many years of keeping it concealed. “I carved it for your uncle, though you can see I am no whittler,” he admitted. There was no response. He lifted his head to find Frodo with the braid still pinched delicately between his fingertips, staring round-eyed at Thorin. “Have I said something amiss?”

“I . . . no,” Frodo said, still with that same startled look. He released the braid hastily, sat back, and took a loud gulp of his tea.

Behind the wall a faint shuffling sound pricked Thorin's ears. The door cracked open -- a white-haired, wizened figure emerged, wobbling on unsteady legs.

“Bilbo,” Frodo cried, and he was up from the bench and across the hall like a dart to support him. “Sit down, you’ll fall over!”

“Stop your fussing, I’m fine! Give me a moment to catch my breath so I can scold you properly for running off without so much as a blasted note.”

That voice! Oh, that familiar voice, thin and reedy though it was, pierced Thorin through the heart. He was standing before he realized it, striding down the hall toward the two hobbits. The body might have been stooped and bent, the face so furrowed with age as to be almost unrecognizable, but those clever, unclouded eyes were as full of life as they had ever been in Thorin’s memories -- though they watered as Thorin drew closer.

“Burglar,” Thorin breathed, reaching out to hold that beloved face in his palms. He could have wept. “Bilbo.”

Small, trembling hands touched his jaw in wonder and then rudely yanked his ears. “Took you long enough to find me, you confounded dwarf.”

And Thorin laughed.

 

***************************

 

When Bilbo came downstairs, it seemed to Thorin that the shouts that erupted from his Company would bring down the ceiling of Elrond’s elegant receiving room. There were hoots and hollers, embraces and back-slaps, and a great deal of merriment all around.

“My dear, dear dwarves,” Bilbo cried, planting a smacking kiss on Bofur’s nose to the raucous amusement of all the others. “Gracious, Ori, look at you! Such an impressive beard! And Óin, how are you? Oh, for me? Bifur, my darling fellow, what a _lovely_ flower -- thank you, thank you kindly. Fíli! And Kíli too, of course -- oh, my lads, how marvellous to see you again. Come here and let me get a good look at you. Goodness me, how I’ve missed you degenerate lot!”

“Am I forgiven, Bilbo, now that I've brought such visitors home with me?” Frodo cried.

“You’re forgiven a hundred times over, but mind you don’t do it again!” Bilbo did not let go of Thorin’s hand even as he reached out for embraces from the others, and Thorin was perfectly content to be dragged hither and thither with him, for the tiny fingers linked to his were real and solid and kept him tethered when his joy should have swept him away. Bilbo looked as frail as a cobweb, and nearly as colourless, but his wit, his hearty laugh, and the brightness of his eyes were all unmistakable -- it was _their_  hobbit, and no other.

“Balin,” Bilbo said affectionately, having received a careful head-bump from the dwarf in question. “It's been much too long, my dear friend. My hair is as white as yours now! What’s left of it.”

“Aye, but you wear it well.”

“Always the diplomat.”

Once the initial commotion had calmed a little, Bilbo was delighted to make the acquaintance of those whom he did not know. “So you are the Lady Dís! I’ve heard such things about you, courtesy of your sons.”

“Fearsome things, I hope?”

“Absolutely ghastly.”

Dís laughed aloud. It was plain enough to see that she was charmed. Frerin darted several curious glances down to Thorin’s hand, still linked with Bilbo’s. As they were hauled away next by Kíli and Fíli, Frerin gave him a very impertinent wink.

Gandalf joined them after a time, looking pleased with himself. Behind him, a queue of elves followed with goblets and plates, dishes and bowls, and steaming pots of good-smelling stews and baskets of fresh bread. “Compliments of Elrond,” he announced as the elves began arranging their burdens on a long side-table. “A feast fit for a reunion of friends.”

Bilbo was seated by the fire with Thorin on one side and Kíli and Ori practically stacked atop each other on the other, and Bofur’s hat was perched jauntily on his head. The others carried over long benches, and settled in. With so much to talk about, it was a wonder that any of them could eat, but eat they did, and the conversation flowed as freely as the wine. They feasted and danced and sang long into the evening, and even the Lady Galadriel appeared for a short while to gather a plate for herself and listen, with evident amusement, to one of Bofur's bawdy recitations. The evening passed in a haze of wine and laughter and starlight. Thorin doubted that Elrond’s stately home had seen a merrier party.

Frodo could not stop exclaiming over how much better Bilbo looked, how his old energy seemed to have been restored to him. "I haven't seen you look so happy since you went away," he said, and he cried a little on his uncle's shoulder. Thorin smiled at the lad's tender heart -- or perhaps his weak head for wine.

Even so, as one hour slipped into three, and then five, Bilbo was visibly beginning to tire. He waved away Frodo’s concerns flippantly. “Too much to drink and not enough air,” he said, and he turned to Thorin, who still sat at his side. “Take a walk with me, won’t you?"

There was a larger garden attached to Elrond’s back terrace, its hedges and quiet pools lit with dripping silver lanterns and moonlight. For some time the two of them wandered the winding path, stopping every so often for Bilbo to admire a particular bloom or leaf. Flowers had never been a particular pleasure of Thorin’s, but it was pleasure enough to have Bilbo at his side again, his hand tucked securely into the crook of Thorin’s elbow.

At length Bilbo conceded that he required a sit-down. Indeed, his breath was becoming worryingly laboured. Thorin found a low wooden bench suitable for the purpose; it was so perfectly matched to a halfling’s height, in fact, that Thorin briefly wondered whether it had been installed with Bilbo in mind. After they had settled, Bilbo held out his hands, and Thorin took them up. They felt as fragile as vellum against his own rough paws.

“You feel real enough,” Bilbo said, staring at their linked fingers, "but I cannot help but think that this must be a dream, or some mad old fancy of mine.”

“You feel real enough to me.”

“Look at you. You look just as remember you.” He grinned then, a sudden, startling flash, painful in its familiarity; the Bilbo he had known had smiled as though he thought someone might rap his knuckles for it. “I cannot say the same for myself.”

“You have lived your life,” said Thorin. “There is no shame in it.”

“No, no, there isn’t. And I have lived a good one.” His smile became a thin, inscrutable thing, and he released Thorin’s hands to rub his own knuckles, a fussy gesture that had apparently never left him. “But it’s late and you’ve travelled far today. I doubt you want to listen to an old hobbit’s rambling stories.”

“I would listen to an old friend’s stories.”

Bilbo blinked at him, and the deep, tense lines around his mouth seemed to ease. “I had forgotten . . .” He trailed off.

“Forgotten?” Thorin prompted.

“Nothing important. At my age, one forgets many things.”

On the wind a song rose, yet it did not come from the gay party they had left behind. Instead it drifted from the west, across the lake. Elvish voices were so high, and their choruses had such odd and discordant harmonies that there was something haunting about them. “Do they always sing through the night?”

“Very often,” Bilbo said fondly. “The elves of Imladris love dancing and music above all else. There was always music in Elrond’s household, and so there is music here. He has been a cherished friend to me, all these years.”

“He is more reasonable than most of his kin,” Thorin conceded. He had expected a laugh, perhaps, or maybe a scolding, but Bilbo was looking out over the garden and seemed not to hear him.

“Did you know that I became something of an adventurer after our quest?" he said, with an almost absent tone. "I went home but I could not be easy there. My smial was so empty. Hobbiton was so small, so predictable, so uninterested in the wider world. How could I spend my days weeding tomatoes and dusting the mantle when there were mountains to climb and forests to wander? It is strange how life twists and turns. I travelled Middle-earth, here and there, wherever the road led me, until Frodo came to me.” He tugged his coat more tightly over his narrow shoulders. “There was one place, in all my travels, that I never revisited. I couldn’t return to the Lonely Mountain, no matter how many invitations I received. I couldn’t bear to go, knowing that you were not there on its throne.

“Your death was a grief I have carried with me all these years, my dear friend. And I carried it gratefully, for it meant that you were still with me in some small way.”

Thorin did not know what to say or what to think. “I didn’t know that it would have affected you so.”

Now Bilbo did chuckle, but it was an incredulous sound. “Don't be absurd, of course it did. You were stubborn and contrary and horrendously rude, and I loved you.”

A tightness that was half alarm and half elation swelled in the pit of Thorin's belly. His heart pounded. He could not speak.

“Oh. Oh, Thorin. You didn’t know? I was sure that you did.”

“I didn’t dare hope,” he rasped.

“I’ve had a long life for a hobbit. I travelled many places and met many people, but I loved only once.” Bilbo was silent for a time. “I didn’t know how to tell you, at the time, or whether I even should. I didn’t know whether you would welcome it.”

“I would have. I would have begged you to stay.”

“I had no notion that you felt that way. I would never have known it!”

“I had no idea of what it was to fall in love. I had been unlucky in courtship.” Even in his youth he had been plain, and he had had no natural graces like his brother and sister to mitigate it. Once Erebor had been lost, the offers for his hand had all but dwindled to nothing. “When I met you, I was well past my prime, and I had already named Fíli as my heir. Devotion to my people was enough. You were . . . . My affection for you troubled me.”

“I see the years haven't stripped the silver from your tongue,” Bilbo said dryly.

“That is not what I meant.”

“Oh hush, I know. I couldn’t have ever loved you to begin with if I didn't know that you rarely mean what you say.”

“When did you first . . . . when did . . . .?”

Bilbo laughed. “You didn’t make a very charming first impression. I had already settled it with myself that I should be a bachelor, living contentedly with my garden and the company of friends and never wanting more for myself. I didn't go on our adventure expecting -- or wanting, I might add -- to fall in love. You took me by surprise. But by the time we reached Rivendell, at least, I was fond of you, and well on my way to more.”

Before Lake-town. Before Beorn’s house. Before they had reached the foothills of the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo had loved him before any of those things. They would have had weeks, months, if only Thorin had not been so stubborn. Perhaps it would have still ended with the great battle, but they would have known happiness for a short while.

“You have no notion,” Bilbo said suddenly, “of how wretchedly sorry I am. I don’t regret stealing the Arkenstone, Thorin. It was necessary, whatever you may think, but I regretted hurting you so. I've wanted to tell you that for years.”

Would it always come back to the Arkenstone, the bane of his line? Once the thought of it had been enough to sustain all of Thorin's dearest hopes. Now the mere mention of it sickened him.  “In the halls of my fathers, I’ve never wanted it. I’ve never spared a moment to wish for it. I know why you did it. I knew it on the battlefield when my mind had cleared.”

“They buried you with it."

“I know.”

Bilbo sagged forward to rest his head against Thorin’s shoulder, and for some time they were quiet. “It seems a dream. Gandalf told me that you cannot stay.”

Thorin ached. The weight of Bilbo's head against him, the sound of his voice, the press of his hand -- those things alone anchored him.

“You are happy in your Halls, aren’t you, Thorin? It would give me comfort to know that you're going away to a good place.”

The ultimate futility of his journey had been something on which Thorin had not allowed himself to dwell. He had not wanted to acknowledge it. He had fixed his thoughts on seeing that Bilbo was freed from the Ring, and now it was done. But now, with Bilbo in the last stretch of his life, it was clear that this would end in pain for both of them. He could not take Bilbo with him to the Halls, nor could he follow Bilbo to the resting grounds of the hobbits. They must always be parted. Their meetings were fated to always end in goodbyes.

As if he could feel the helpless anger burning through Thorin’s veins, Bilbo lifted his head. “None of that,” he chided. “We have a few days yet. I would be very cross with you if you brooded away all of our time.”

Thorin rose to pace fitfully before the bench. Why had the Green Lady come to him? Frodo had intended to go to Manwë all along -- there had been no need to pull him from the Halls and stir up so many old wounds. He felt betrayed, in some foolish way, that he should have been permitted to find Bilbo only to part with him again. It was a cruelty, not a kindness!

“Thorin, please,” Bilbo said, and Thorin could not resist such a plea. He knelt before Bilbo's bench, and after a moment's thought, he asked the question that had plagued him for over half a century. “If I had asked you to stay with me in Erebor, would you have stayed?”

Bilbo’s chin trembled a little, and he had to blink away the bright sheen in his eyes. “I was a different hobbit in those days. I was still in love with the Shire, with Bag End and my books and my garden. It would have taken some time. But yes, of course. I could have loved Erebor as I loved her king. Of course I would have stayed with you.”

“Forgive me,” Thorin rasped. He rested his head on the wasted plane of Bilbo’s thigh. “We could have had happiness had I not been so blind.”

Bilbo sighed, and his fingers stroked tenderly through Thorin’s hair until Thorin looked up at him again. “It’s enough for a thousand lifetimes to know that you loved me. Can it be enough for you?”

“You have always been more sensible than I,” was all he could say.

Bilbo’s smile was a brittle thing. “We must accept small joys where we find them and hold them close.” Very gently, he withdrew his hand from Thorin’s. “But we ought not allow ourselves to regret it once those joys slip from our grasp, as they must. Our time has passed, Thorin.”

“I know,” Thorin said. He rose onto his knees and pressed a kiss to Bilbo’s mouth. With a heart torn between fulfillment and sorrow, he broke the fleeting kiss and returned his head to its resting place against Bilbo’s knee. After a brief pause, Bilbo’s fingers began to card through his hair once more, and Thorin closed his eyes.

 

* * *

* * *

_FRODO_

* * *

 

 

HAVING DANCED UNTIL SUNRISE and imbibed more of Elrond’s excellent wine than was strictly wise, Frodo awoke early in the afternoon with a throbbing head and a strange feeling of displacement.

When he ventured out his rooms, the austere halls were still and silent. Lindir was kind enough to direct him to the kitchens, where he might get some breakfast and ‘something for his head.’ He reported that the dwarves were still in their rooms, presumably sleeping off their own revelries, and that Bilbo had risen early, taken a hearty breakfast, and was currently walking out in the southern garden with Gandalf and Thorin. Another reassurance that Nienna’s water had been fruitful, a hot breakfast of honeyed porridge and fried potatoes, and an herbal remedy for overindulgence that one of the elves slipped ever so discreetly into Frodo’s tea were a sufficient boon to his mood; by the time the last crumbs were gone and his tea had been reduced to dregs, he was feeling more like himself.

The afternoon was sunny and warm, and feeling the need for a little air, Frodo wandered out onto the veranda that circled the house. The marble was cool beneath his feet, and the air was filled with birdsong and whispers of far-off conversations from the walkways below. His task was done. Bilbo was healed. His adventures were over.

But some slight disquiet scratched at Frodo still, the niggling sensation that something important had been left undone.  

Turning the corner, he came upon Elrond reclined on a chaise overlooking the garden, a book open in his hands and platter of peeled fruit balanced upon his lap. He turned as Frodo approached, lowering his book with a half-smile. “You look hale this morning. Did Lindir direct you to Ardan and her tea?”

“He did. Am I disturbing you?”

“Not at all.” He gathered his light robes and sat upright, clearing a spot on the chaise. “Have a seat. Would you like some fruit?”

“Thank you, I’ve already eaten breakfast.”

Elrond held the plate out toward him.

Frodo laughed and took a generous handful of grapes from it as he settled himself on the cushions. They sat together and watched the street below as the elves went about their business.

“You know,” Frodo began, placing the bare stem neatly on his plate, “Valmar is beautiful. I’ve always thought it was beautiful. But it wasn’t the Shire.” He tried to put the feelings to words, but it was no easy undertaking. “It still isn’t the Shire, but I feel like I could stay here. Like I could be happy here.”

Elrond closed his book and set it aside. “I'm pleased to hear you say so. It is limiting to think of home as one place, or that home must only be one place at a time. One can have many homes. The Shire was your first. Valmar can become one too.”

“When I said goodbye to Sam and Merry and Pippin, it felt like forever. It seemed as though I should never see them again. Seeing the rest of Valinor . . . I don’t know. I suppose it’s not as dire as I thought. I can wait for them. What is a hundred years in a land that’s been here for hundreds of thousands?” He huffed out a laugh. “I must sound very silly to you.”

“Not at all. For what is six thousand years compared to Eä’s Ages? I am quite young, considering.”

“Positively sprightly,” Frodo agreed solemnly, and he was pleased to receive one of Elrond’s rare chuckles.

“I am glad to see your good humour restored.”

“I do feel better," said Frodo. "It's made it easier, somehow. Not so difficult to go on.”

“Perhaps not all adventures end distastefully.”

“Maybe not. Elrond?”

“Yes?"

“Did you know? About Uncle and Thorin.”

Elrond stilled, and Frodo thought he’d managed to surprise him. “It was no business of mine,” he said at last, with that chastising, fatherly tone he used on his sons when they were being pert.

“You knew, then,” Frodo said. “Bilbo never breathed a word of it to me. All the stories he told, and I never once considered it. Foolish of me, really.” What a shock it had been to find a braid in Thorin's hair bearing a bead carved with sunflowers -- _sunflowers_ , the most ardent representation of passion. And for Thorin to say he had made it for Bilbo, with his own hands! Well! It was a bold declaration by hobbit standards. That level of directness would have caused some second glances in the Shire, though Bilbo probably would have enjoyed the scandal.

“Does it disturb you?”

It _was_ strange to think of his solitary uncle as having loved anyone, let alone someone like Thorin, who was so gruff and grim and serious. Then again, Frodo supposed that most matches seemed incomprehensible to outsiders; his own parents, a wild Brandybuck and a mostly proper Baggins, had been considered an odd pair in Buckland. And what did he know of it, after all? He had never been in love himself. “No, not at all. Thorin has been kind, in his own way, and he’s always spoken of Bilbo fondly. So long as he treated him well, I shouldn’t see why it should concern me.”

“Yet something does.”

Frodo dropped his gaze away from Elrond's too-knowing eyes and added a few more grape stems to the platter. “Ori told me that the dwarves cannot stay here, or they won’t be allowed back into their Halls."

“I heard,” Elrond said. "If the dwarves made a promise to return at a certain time, I would assume it is binding.”

“But if it wasn’t, would Thorin be allowed to stay here?”

Elrond's face softened. “You forget one thing, Frodo. The dwarves are dead. They have passed beyond already. You and Bilbo live yet, and you are mortal. One day you shall both pass on, where he cannot follow. And Bilbo, I am afraid, is very old -- that day will come sooner than any of us wish.”

Frodo looked away. Elves were streaming away from the afternoon market, satchels and baskets in hand. He spotted Tauriel and Kíli in the crowd, for his height and her hair made them rather distinguishable in the sea of elves. He watched them. They walked with strides perfectly matched, their heads bent close, and every so often a peal of laughter rose on the air. Frodo had not known Tauriel long, but he was sure he had never seen her face wreathed with such bright smiles. An enormous daisy sat behind Kíli’s ear, no doubt tucked there by slender, battle-scarred hands. They crossed over onto another bridge and melted back into the crowd. “It seems very unfair that it should end like this, after everything," he murmured.

“So it was when Beren and Lúthien were parted. So it was when Arwen chose a mortal life. So it must be again.”

“It's unfair. Why should anyone be parted from one they love simply because they don’t share the same Maker?”

“It is the way of the world.”

"Love ought to be enough." Frodo unfolded his legs and went over to the edge of the terrace. It was the way of the world, but the world was sustained by the Valar. All the great kindnesses that he had received from them were impossible to reconcile with their role in such heartbreak. “Gandalf said that you cannot have grief without love, or love without grief, for they are the same. If love always ends in pain, why should any of us want it?”

There was a pause. Footsteps padded softly across the marble floor, and Elrond came to stand beside him. “I had a short time with Celebrían, in the full measure of my life," he said quietly. "Her fading was lingering and painful, and as long as I live, I shall never forget her suffering. We lost her twice: once when she sailed West, and again when we came here to find that she had already gone to the Halls of Waiting. Yet, given the choice, I would not sacrifice a single minute that I shared with her. Your uncle is a wise hobbit, with a good understanding of the world. Do not be sorry for them, Frodo. Nor Tauriel and young Kíli. They have known love, and that will sustain them. Perhaps one day, when the world has been remade, they will find each other again.”

“It ought to be enough,” Frodo insisted again.

For a long moment Elrond did not speak, looking out across the gardens. “Yes,” he said at last, and beneath the wry acknowledgement was the whisper of an ancient grief. “It ought to be.”

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand apologies for the big posting delay, everyone -- it’s the busiest time of the year for academic libraries, so I really haven’t had any spare time for writing. (Even though this chapter contains lots of salty old Bilbo dialogue, and salty old Bilbo dialogue is my favorite thing ever to write.) Anyway, the last two chapters may come a little more slowly, but that one-shot sequel is definitely forthcoming as well.


	9. Farewell

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

* * *

 

_THORIN_

 

* * *

 

* * *

 

ON THE EVE OF HIS guests’ departure, Elrond hosted a lavish banquet that the dwarrows might part with Bilbo and Frodo with the memory of one last evening together. 

Thorin did not have it in him to be suspicious of the elf-lord’s motives, nor did he take offense at the ill-concealed pity in Elrond’s eyes. Their hosts had been gracious, providing all manner of luxuries and accommodations, though doubtless it was done mostly out of respect for Bilbo -- on several occasions Thorin had seen carefully veiled distaste in elvish faces as they wandered the streets of Valmar.

It had been a long time since Thorin's waking hours had been marked by such gladness or such sorrow. Six brief days could not contain all the conversations of seventy years of separation, but valiantly did he and Bilbo try. They drank in the unearthly beauty of Valinor, walking together as they once had. Bilbo spoke of faraway lands he had seen and people he had known. He spoke of the Fellowship and watching Frodo march away with them to his doom. He spoke of his poems and songs and histories, stories collected painstakingly from across Middle-earth and translated into as many tongues as he could learn. He spoke of Bag End, and how lonely he had been before Frodo had come to him. In turn, he plumbed Thorin for stories of the Ever-lands: the majesty of Manwë’s mountain, the terrible beauty of the Green Lady, the music of the Watchman of the Seas, the magnificence of the Halls. Thorin was no storyteller, but Bilbo listened as though he were.

With a self-effacing bit of ceremony, he brought Thorin to his chamber one evening to show him the book he had written, bound in dyed leather and penned in that familiar neat hand. After some coaxing, Bilbo was cajoled into reading it for him, and for the first time Thorin found he was able to laugh at their misadventures.

“Did I truly seem so pompous to you?”

“Yes, but you do cut a grand figure. I was in awe of you at first, you know.”

Thorin frowned around the biscuit in his mouth. “At first?”

Bilbo sipped primly at his tea, but there was a smile in the curve of his cheek. He cleared his throat and returned his attention to the open book on his lap. “Now where did I leave off? Right after the goblin tunnels, I think.”

“I do not make _speeches_.”

“Yes, you do,” Bilbo said fondly, and turned the page.

Thorin did his best to engrave these moments in his memory. They would not be enough once he was again sealed away in Mahal’s keep, but they were all he could take with him. He was not alone in this resolve. As their time drew to its end, they were joined on their walks by Bifur and Bofur, Balin and Óin and Ori and the lads. Thorin was not so selfish that he could resent their company, nor the attention they were given. He had no cause to be jealous of Bilbo's love any longer.

As the sixth day dawned, Thorin woke to a curious calm. He stared at the canopy above his bed, rippled with shafts of light from the window. All through the night he had pondered what the next day would bring, prodding cautiously at the thought like one might poke at a rotten tooth. Again and again one notion came to him insistently, though he tried to ignore it, and the thought took root in his heart.

He and Bilbo spent the day wandering the bank of the lake and sitting on the high hills where the shimmering Sea was barely visible on the horizon. Thorin realized that they hadn’t finished his book and asked if they might, but Bilbo shook his head and said that perhaps it was best that they had not reached the end.

When dusk fell they returned to Elrond’s house, where lanterns were being hung and tables were being laid for the banquet. Soon the chamber was full of conversation and songs and good food, and if the conversation was quieter and the songs not so merry, it could not be helped. Thorin took a plate but found he could not eat; Bilbo’s appetite seemed to have fled from him as well. Through the whole evening he was subdued, and his hand gripped Thorin’s with a fierceness that spoke more clearly than his airy reassurances. Perhaps they had accepted that they must say goodbye -- perhaps Bilbo could be philosophical with so many long years behind him -- but their hearts were not so wise as their heads.

As troubled as he was, Bilbo tired quickly. Despite his faint protests, Frodo kindly but firmly persuaded him to retire before midnight. Thorin rose as the hobbit did and took his arm, but Bilbo waved him away.

“Please, no goodbyes tonight,” he said. “I’ll see you lot in the morning.”

Thorin cast his eyes over the table, cluttered with empty dishes and ringed with the faces of his kin, and hardened his resolve.

With their journey looming before them, Óin and Bifur soon excused themselves to catch what rest they could, and after wiping down his fiddle, Bofur joined them. Frerin rose to follow, but Thorin came to his feet. “Frerin, Dís,” he said, “stay here a moment. Balin, you as well.” He drove Fíli and Kíli to the fireside with a hand at each of their backs, and he heard his brother and sister fall into step behind him. The door creaked softly as Balin closed it.

“What is it?” Dís asked. “Thorin?”

Balin was gripping the door handle, his eyes closed, and Thorin realized then that he knew.

“Forgive me,” he said. Balin’s jaw clenched.

“Uncle Thorin?” Kíli ventured, but Fíli’s eyes were already widening.

“I am staying,” Thorin said.

There was no outcry, no commotion, no angry shouts or exclamations. An awful silence descended upon them all.

Fíli was the first to break it, with just a breath of a sound. “Please.”

It wrenched Thorin’s heart. “There is no other choice for me. Forgive me.” He couldn't bear to look at Fili's face any longer; he turned helplessly to Dís, who stared into the fire. "Sister." She jerked, and her gaze flew to meet his. Her eyes were wet.

“Dís ---”

She shook out her tunic and began to walk away; Thorin reached out and caught her wrist. “Sister!”

“You’re a fool,” Dís said coldly, and she wrested her hand away. Kíli was fast on her heels as she pushed furiously through the door, and Fíli, after a hesitation, followed.

Frerin was still, so still. He set his goblet on the mantle and his hand rose to his mouth. He turned away and left without a word.

Only Balin remained, still propped against the door-jam.

“Will you walk away too?” Thorin asked wearily.

“How many times are we to lose you, Thorin?”

His eyes burned. “I must do this. I _must_. Tell me you understand.”

“I do. It would be better if I didn’t.” Balin haltingly took him by the shoulders. “Bilbo won’t thank you for this. If I know him at all, he’ll be very angry at you. Are you absolutely certain?”

“I am.”

Balin clasped Thorin too tightly and for once seemed to have no words of wisdom to give.

 

***

 

Thorin sought out Bilbo at dawn the next morning and found him in Frodo’s rooms, taking before-breakfast tea. Frodo greeted him warmly and made as if to leave, but Thorin bid him stay and confessed all. It was a scene, for true to Balin’s prediction, Bilbo was furious, his shouts giving way to tears when he realized that Thorin would not be swayed.

“I will die,” he cried, “and then what will you do? You will be trapped here -- among elves, for mercy’s sake! -- with no kin or comfort! Would you do this to me, Thorin? Would you have me die with your fate weighing on me?” He made as though to storm away, but his rage had drained his strength; he fell back onto his chair with a huff or a sob. Thorin caught him up and held him until his enraged tears were spent.

“I have made my choice,” he said, and he felt Bilbo quiver against him. "I will see it through, though it may be selfish. That has ever been my weakness.”

Once they had calmed themselves a little, Frodo -- who had been lingering uneasily by the window, watching their argument unfold with anxious eyes -- brought them a fresh pot of tea. “Are the others still leaving this morning?” he asked Thorin softly, his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder.

“Yes.”

“Goodbyes are always difficult,” the little lad said with a sorrowful, faraway look. He poured more tea into Thorin’s cup and offered him the sugar bowl. “A friend once told me to think of them as promises to meet again.”

“Another elf friend?”

Frodo smiled. “A dwarf friend, actually.”

Bilbo’s voice startled them both, soft and strained though it was. “Please don’t do this.”

Thorin cupped his palms around the mug and let its warmth ground him. He would not be moved. He would be as granite in the water. “Do you not wish for me to stay?”

“They are your family. This is _forever_.”

“I know.”

Bilbo uttered a hoarse, strangled noise of frustration. “I have nothing to offer you, not even my company. I cannot promise that I will be here tomorrow.”

“Do you love me still?”

“Thorin.”

“Do you love me?”

Bilbo covered his face and sighed. “You know I do.”

“Then you offer me everything.” He reached across the table and tugged Bilbo’s hands away, cradling them between his own. “If I am to watch them leave today, I need your help.”

 

***

 

As Manwë had promised, three small ships bobbed on the waves of the Bay of Eldamar, their prows whittled into eagles with proud wooden beaks lifted to the sky. White sails fluttered in a wind that grew stronger as Thorin walked down the beach to the water where his Company were silently loading their packs into the crafts.

He paused to glance back at the rise where Bilbo, Frodo, and Tauriel stood, their faces drawn and solemn; behind them, at a respectful distance, were Gandalf and Elrond. Thorin turned to the shining sea and his kin, those whom he loved, and whom he should never see again.

 _I cannot_ , he thought, and despair caught him by the throat. His steps faltered. His eyes fell shut, and he felt the cool wind brush against his face like a gentle touch. _I must_.

“Go on,” Bilbo said quietly, and Thorin did.

Kíli saw him first. He dropped his pack, running clumsily up the sand and throwing himself in Thorin’s arms. His eyes were limned in red and his face was flushed. Around his neck the elf’s star-pendant glowed. He opened his lips to speak, mouthed wordlessly for a moment, and then buried his face against Thorin’s neck. As always, Fíli was just behind him, tucking his golden head under Thorin’s chin.

One-by-one, goodbyes were said, embraces shared, and not even Bofur could muster a smile. The stifled sobs of Fíli and Kíli were heartrending, and Frerin wept bitterly. Thorin kissed his brother’s forehead, smoothed his disheveled braid for the last time, and pulled away. Dís stood behind him.

“Dís, I --”

Reaching up into her hair, she withdrew her first-craft, a golden bead forged by her own hand when she came of age. With steady fingers, she wove a small braid in Thorin’s hair and clasped it with the bead. “So you will not forget your family,” she said, “and your sister, who loves you more than all the mithril in Erebor.”

Thorin grabbed her up and held her, pretending he did not feel tears on his neck. “Look after Amad and Adad,” he said, and her arms tightened. “Tell them . . . tell them . . . “ The words would not come.

All too soon, the ships were readied and boarded. The sails filled and the winds rose, and Thorin Oakenshield watched his Company depart one last time, standing alone at the water’s edge until their ships faded beyond the stretch of the Sea.

 

***

 

The little cottage on the bay was comfortable, though as far removed from the stone labyrinth of the Halls as it was possible to be. How strange were the delicate furnishings and cheerful curtains and the flowers that seemed to decorate every available surface; yet after a time Thorin came to enjoy the way the whole house seemed to warm in the sunlight.

It was good to be removed from the commotion of Valmar. The shores were barren, save for the occasional craft sailing into the bay. The woods were calm and undisturbed, and their cool stillness reminded Thorin of the forested slopes of Ered Luin. He spent many mornings wandering through the trees with Bilbo or Frodo, or by himself, and he took comfort in the small familiarity. Still, there were no dwarvish songs in the air, no steaming forges, no drum-beat of hammer on metal -- all the sounds that he had come to associate with home were absent. Yet with the constant music of the Sea and two talkative hobbits to fill the silences when they stretched too long, it was not a desolate place.

On one of his visits, Gandalf came bearing a gift for Thorin: a hand-harp, exquisitely crafted. Where he had gotten it, he would not say, but Bilbo, after inspecting it carefully, murmured discreetly to Thorin that he believed he had seen Elrond’s daughter play it once or twice, many years before. The sound of the harp -- a sound of home -- became a regular attendant to evenings by the fire.

Thorin's days were full and kept him well-occupied, and there was at last time and privacy enough for he and Bilbo to begin to learn each other again. Apart from the fleshly wear of age, Bilbo _was_ different, in subtle but definite ways, from the halfling Thorin had known. He was more self-assured, vastly more playful, with a forthrightness that would have horrified the fussy green grocer Thorin had met in Bag End -- the years had evidently worn away his patience for nonsense and sharpened his wit. Yet there was kindness still, and the same cleverness and compassion that had once so intrigued him. For all the things that separated them still, Thorin’s love was as strong as it had ever been. He could have made no other choice. They were neither of them the same creatures they had been then, and as the days passed into weeks and they began to settle into this new, odd little life, Thorin could only suppose that it was for the better.

Both he and Frodo were much relieved to see Bilbo retain his new vigour, and they marked with pleasure the brightness that had returned to his eyes. The years did not turn back, for they could not, but he seemed younger in his bearing, and his old energy animated his voice once more.

For his part, Frodo seemed happier as well, different altogether from the forlorn hobbit Thorin had met in Smaug’s cave. As he stirred the house with his youthful bustle and came back from the city red-cheeked and telling stories of market gossip, it was easy for Thorin to see why Bilbo loved him so.

“He’s a good lad,” Thorin remarked as they sat in the garden and watched Frodo select a proper bouquet under his uncle’s exacting direction. “You raised him well.”

“I shan’t disagree with that first bit, but I can’t take credit for it. I looked after him now and then for Prim when he was a wee thing, but he didn’t come to stay with me until he was nearly grown.” Bilbo examined the hole he’d dug with a critical eye before setting aside his spade. “Hand me a few of those carrot seeds, would you?”

The preeminence of gardening in his new lifestyle had been one more adjustment to bear. Thorin found himself so often wrist-deep in the loamy black soil of the vegetable patch that he began to fear that he would never be able to prise all the dirt from under his fingernails. He had no talent for nurturing the fragile buds and bulbs, but Bilbo and Frodo were patient tutors. When his temper flared over a broken stalk, they hid their smiles -- poorly, but it was a kind thought -- and helped him salvage what he could. He would readily admit that there was some satisfaction to be found in uncovering the ensuing crop of potatoes and beets and sugar-sweet peas.Less appealing was the gathering of the flower arrangements that filled their cottage. It was apparently an art much prized by hobbits. Thorin could not say that he understood it, though the blooms wafted a pleasant fragrance around the house and the colours were pretty enough to look at. It seemed foolish to expend so much time and energy on something that would wither and fade within the week. A good, strong blade, well-made, or an emerald necklace would last years, decades -- generations, if the quality were particularly fine -- and that Thorin could understand. This manner of craftsmanship was admittedly beyond him. There was a master blacksmith in Valmar, with a forge that was said to be expansive, but Thorin could notbring himself to go. In time, perhaps, when the wound was less fresh.

With his harp and his walks, the homely cottage, the garden, and the company of hobbits, Thorin was for the most part content. If, in the stillness of the night, he longed to hear his father’s voice and see the beautiful stone arches of Durin’s Keep, he kept such thoughts to himself.

 

***

 

Bilbo was making his mother’s tea biscuits, demonstrating the tricks she had used and gladly making use of Thorin’s strength for the kneading -- his own hands had grown too unsteady to do it properly. Under the guise of ‘helping’, Frodo had perched himself by the hearth, reading a book and happily sampling each of the batches they produced.

Later, Thorin could not say what it was that drove him to speak at that moment. It may have been the sugar-scented warmth of the kitchen, or the brightness of the sunlight through the window, or the bit of flour that dotted the end of Bilbo’s nose as he cut the flattened dough into neat squares.

“Marry me,” Thorin said.

Bilbo’s hands froze. There was a strangled sound from the hearth as Frodo choked on his biscuit. He coughed wildly, cleared his throat, and gathered up his book before uttering a hasty excuse and scurrying out into the garden.

“Do try not to kill my nephew, Thorin! He is the only one I have.”

Thorin reached for the hobbit’s hand, stirring a puff of flour between them. “I have long wished us to be bound together in all ways.”

The look Bilbo gave him then was very dry indeed. “At my age? You would speed me to my grave. My heart would give out.”

To his horror, Thorin felt the blushing heat in his cheeks. “That is not . . . that’s not what I meant.” He waited until Bilbo’s laughter tapered away, and he coughed meaningfully. “A simple ceremony is all I desire. There need not be even guests, apart from Frodo, and maybe the wizard if he insists on it. I wish to call you mine. Will you not grant me this?”

Bilbo’s amusement was tempered by a warm affection that soothed Thorin’s injured pride. “I always suspected that there was a streak of sentimentality hidden beneath all that hair.” He gave one of Thorin’s braids a playful tug. “I would feel rather dastardly, you know, a decrepit old creature like me snapping up a bright young thing like you.”

Thorin snorted. “I haven’t been a ‘bright young thing’ in over two hundred years. And I am still older than you.”

With a shake of his head, Bilbo took up his knife and began patiently slicing the dough again.  “Ask me again later.”

“Bilbo ---”

Bilbo’s smile was rueful. “Later, Thorin.”

 

* * *

_FRODO_

* * *

* * *

 

 

ONE YEAR PASSED INTO ANOTHER, and all was well in the cottage by the Sea.

This adventure, thankfully, had ended more pleasantly than the last for Frodo. Before vanishing again into who-knew-where, Gandalf had left a sheaf of crisp paper and a bottle of fine black ink on Frodo’s writing desk. On those pages, Frodo told what he felt was his last story: tales of the Valar, the wonders of the Ever-lands, and the reunion of friends long after death had parted them.

He would give this book to Sam, he decided, when they met again.

The little turquoise stone from Nienna’s river he kept with him nearly at all times. There was a jeweller in Valmar who was happy to set it in a silver pendant for him, and Frodo wore it on a length of chain around his neck, as a reminder. To his eternal gratitude, this weight was not a heavy one to bear.

It was difficult to accept that their small family of two had become three. Frodo was not used to having another to help with Bilbo’s care, nor to take a share of his attention, and at first they all struggled a little to find their places. Thorin was not accustomed to a confined, provincial life -- this much was apparent nearly from their first day back in the cottage -- but he did try, and in time they struck upon an arrangement that suited them all. With this uncertainty settled, comfort and ease soon followed. Thorin took particular care not to step upon the responsibilities that Frodo had long held in their household, and Frodo came to think warmly of him for it. Brusque and rough he was, but Thorin could be kind when the mood struck him. He doted on Bilbo, and though their quarrels could be alarmingly loud and fierce, Frodo would have expected nothing less from two such strong and disparate personalities.

It was, in many respects, a curious relationship. Bilbo was hardly at a marriageable age, but Thorin was determined to have him properly. He asked several times, formally and on the spur of the moment, at tea, out in the garden, late in the evening by the fireside, and each time Bilbo smiled, told him he loved him, and said _no_. Thorin did not press him, but he was not deterred from asking again later. Frodo thought it a little hard of Bilbo, for Thorin’s disappointment was evident with each rejection, but he knew that it was not done out of callousness. There must be some reason for this game, even if that reason made sense only to Bilbo himself. In honesty, Frodo found them equally bewildering. Perhaps it was just as well that he had never fallen in love.

When he wasn’t with Bilbo or helping in the garden, Thorin sat in the yard, carving and whittling. He was not, he told Frodo, much of a woodworker, but it was something to keep himself busy without taking him too far from the cottage. His earliest attempts at furniture were pitiful, and his figurines grotesque. Still, with a stubbornness that seemed innate to the dwarves, he kept practicing until he was able to produce a passable bowl or ornament, which he promptly made gifts of -- the top of Frodo’s chest-of-drawers had become cluttered with lopsided jewel boxes that he had nowhere else to put and very little to put _in_. Bilbo seemed tremendously amused by the whole business.

If nothing else, Thorin was very good at fixing up the house. He had the varied knowledge of a tinkerer due to many years of labour in rented forges and travelling markets. (Folk were willing to pay more if one could provide more services than expected, and Men above all valued the jack-of-all-trades -- though Men were also, Thorin added with some disgust, the shiftiest with their coin.)

With Thorin’s woodworking and Bilbo’s gardening and Frodo’s writing, the cottage was busy and active from morning till night. They received many visitors, and if Thorin was not always entirely cordial with their elven guests, he seemed resigned to them. He tolerated Elrond best and had softened towards Tauriel, who often came to spend an idle afternoon with Frodo. One morning he had even found the two of them arguing, with evident mutual enjoyment, about the correct method of disemboweling orcs.

Frodo did not always stay close to home. He went out into the woods with Tauriel to practice his archery, dined with Elrond and his sons, and joined Galadriel on walks through the Gardens of Lórien. He began to spend more time in the markets and the dining halls, learning the histories of his neighbours and striking up conversations with strangers. He had kept himself distant before, as a guest might attend without engaging; whether he wished it or not, Valmar was now his home. It was a home that could not be lost or soured by the passing of time and distance. Here, in the land always changing and yet never changed, he could return from a journey to find the cottage in the Bay unaltered, its gardens still blooming -- home to his favourite uncle and a sullen dwarf-king of whom he was growing fond. And perhaps, if he were very lucky, he could be happy here until Yavanna called him home to the Pastures.

It was a lovely hope, one that Frodo clung to until he began to feel that he believed it. Valmar had become familiar, its streets filled with friends, and the cottage was always there when he returned from his rambles. He had stability, and he had a home, and gradually it became easier to push aside the lingering feeling of loss. They were comfortable, the three of them, and if Thorin occasionally watched the Sea with something wistful in his eyes, Frodo understood too well to remark upon it.

 

***

 

A frantic shout startled Frodo in the night, and he tumbled halfway out of his bed before he realized what had woken him. His heart beat like a rabbit’s as he cast his eyes around the dark room for danger, a hidden enemy or a drawn blade -- the door flew open, and there was Thorin in his nightshirt, his chest heaving like a bellows, hair in a careless knot over his shoulders.

Frodo did not even have to wonder. He shrugged on his robe, snatched up a candle, and ran down the hall with Thorin fast at his heels.

Amid a mountain of bedding, Bilbo was flushed and damp, shaking, his thin hands clutching the blankets to his chest. Every coughing breath was laboured, and his complexion was colourless in the candlelight. He turned his head fitfully on his pillow, and he met Frodo’s eyes. In his face, behind the discomfort, was quiet resignation.

_Oh, Bilbo, no._

He crawled onto the bed and took Bilbo's wrist; the papery skin was waxy and hot to the touch. “How long has he been like this?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Thorin said in great distress. “I only woke a few moments ago.” He crossed to the other side of the bed and knelt over Bilbo, stroking his hair soothingly before laying a palm against his forehead. “He said he felt a little warm earlier, but he was not feverish.”

“Tea,” Bilbo rasped. “Thorin.”

Thorin leapt up with a haste that might have been amusing in any other circumstance; his bare feet thundered on the floorboards as he stomped away to the kitchen. The faint sound of pots clattering echoed down the hall.

“What can I do?” Frodo straightened the twisted bedding anxiously. “What can I do for you? Are you in pain?”

Bilbo stopped his fussing, prising away his hand with a startling strength. “Look after him, won’t you?” He paused to catch his breath. “Don’t let him do anything foolish until I come back.”

“Bilbo . . . .”

“None of that, now -- no tears.” He lifted one hand to Frodo’s cheek and caressed it. “My dear boy, my Frodo. Oh, how I shall miss you.”

Frodo’s sight blurred. He scrubbed miserably at his eyes and screwed them shut. “Please,” he began, and trailed off helplessly.

Bilbo grasped his neck and gave him a little shake; Frodo opened his stinging eyes and found his uncle smiling a weak smile. “Come now,” he murmured. “I’m old and tired, and she’s come for me.” His smile quivered and slipped, and his eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I’m so sorry.”

Frodo took a breath and reached for his hands again. “I’ll see you again soon,” he whispered. “We’ll all be together then: you and I and Mum and Pa and Aunt Belladonna, Sam and Hamfast and Merry and Pip . . . .”

But Bilbo was not comforted. His lips trembled. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry. What a good lad you are. Forgive me for being so selfish.”

Heavy footsteps pounded back up the hall, and Thorin appeared with a teacup in hand. “Here, Bilbo, drink.” Thorin helped him take a few sips, but the effort seemed to exhaust him.

Once the cup was set aside, Bilbo closed his eyes and sank into the pillows. “I’m sorry,” he murmured again. “I don’t want to leave you.”

Thorin pressed Bilbo’s hand fervently to his lips. Frodo rested his head on his uncle’s breast, feeling the sluggish heartbeat beneath his ear as it stuttered and slowed. They spoke to him quietly, bathing his face with cool water, and kept watch as he faded from listless, shivering sleep into silent insensibility.

Thorin touched Bilbo’s twitching shoulder, and then his cheek, but there was no response. His face was stoic, but when he looked up at Frodo, there was something desperate and half-wild in his eyes. “If we called for Elrond . . . .”

Though it pained him to do it, Frodo shook his head. If Yavanna had come for Bilbo, no elvish magic would bring him back.

They didn’t speak another word that night.

 

***

 

The morning dawned cool and sunny, and Frodo stood on the doorstep, blinking sore eyes against the light as a cloaked figure approached the gate.

It was Tauriel, her face full of sorrow. “Lord Elrond will be here soon, _mellon nín_ ,” she said as she hastened up the path to join him. “He will be buried with every honour, and songs will be sung of him in Valinor for Ages. We share in your grief.” She touched his chest fleetingly. “Where is Thorin?”

“Inside.” Frodo took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. “He’s saying prayers over . . . over the body.”

She took his hand, and there on the front step they kept their vigil. Thorin’s voice rose and ebbed unbroken, a low, moaning chant; Frodo didn’t know the Khuzdul, of course, but he understood the meaning all the same. Hobbits had their own funeral dirges to help souls safely find the path to the Pastures, and he felt a sudden fierce longing for Pippin, who would have sung the sweetest for Bilbo.

Some time after Thorin’s song had ceased, two more figures came up the path. Frodo nearly sobbed with his relief. Gandalf’s arms held him tightly, and he said nothing when Frodo could not bring himself to let go. Elrond went inside, braving Thorin’s wrath to see that the body was properly tended. No shouts or curses followed, and Frodo supposed that the shock of loss was keeping the dwarf’s temper in check. The thought was no comfort.

Bilbo was laid out, and though it was Frodo’s duty to prepare the body for burning, he found that he could not bear to look at him so still and lifeless. Instead he sat with Thorin in numb silence by the hearth while the others saw to the arrangements. The hands of Tauriel and Elrond were reverent and gentle as they bathed and bound the body in soft linen, and if the wizard shed a tear or two as he bid farewell to his old friend, no one drew attention to it.

"We have lost a great soul," Elrond said as he smoothed the shroud over Bilbo's head. He bent and pressed his lips solemnly to the cloth. "Rest well, Wanderer, Child of the West, Teller of Tales, Friend of elf and dwarf and Man alike."

At Frodo's side, Thorin shuddered. His chest heaved, but he kept his silence. Frodo drew closer to him as Gandalf carried the body away.

The burial was arranged in the traditional hobbit fashion. No tomb or casket would be built, for Bilbo would be returned to the earth as dust. The funeral was held at dusk on a hilltop overlooking the Sea. To Frodo it seemed that nearly every elf in Valmar came to see the elf-friend’s ashes buried, and overwhelmed with grief though he was, his chest swelled with pride. Galadriel spoke her blessings over the grave, her golden hair bound up in a white veil. With Gandalf and Thorin beside him, Frodo tipped the ashes from their wooden bowl and watched them mingle with the good, rich earth of Valinor.

 _Farewell, Bilbo_ , he thought, and his tears fell unchecked.

Haunting elvish songs of love and remembrance rose and fell on the wind long into the night.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow, I've been absolutely blown away by the response to the last chapter. Thank you all so much! One chapter left -- if you all have any theories about how this thing's going to shape up, I'd love to hear them. 
> 
> Also, may I direct your attention to the "Angst with a Happy Ending" tag? It's not false advertising, I swear. (Pleasedon'tkillme.)


	10. An Expert Burglar

CHAPTER NINE

* * *

 

_FRODO_

* * *

* * *

 

 

GRIEF HAD BECOME FAMILIAR to Frodo. He managed well enough, though it was bittersweet to see Bilbo’s long-stemmed pipe on the mantle or his precise handwriting on the papers strewn across his desk. Their parting, after all, was only temporary. He would see his uncle again when he passed to the Pastures of Yavanna himself, and this surety tempered the worst of his pain.

Their cottage was so quiet. Bilbo's death left behind a great void, an echoing silence that seemed at each moment to remind Frodo of his absence. When the mourning visits from their neighbours finally slowed, Frodo cast himself into his writing, sorting through his papers and allowing himself to feel the weight of his loss when he marked a passage for his uncle's opinion only to recall that Bilbo would never read it. Still, he gathered the half-finished stories and poems faithfully and arranged them into some semblance of order, filling his afternoons with copying and drafting. Elrond had expressed an interest in having some of Bilbo's work for Valmar's Great Library. The thought that his uncle's tales might be told forever in the Undying Lands was a comforting one, and the task distracted him from the stillness of his home and his increasing worry for the cottage's other occupant.

Thorin's despair was silent and absolute. His carving knife lay untouched on the table, and he seemed not to care if the garden he had laboured so hard to keep in bloom for Bilbo withered to dust. He had taken to wandering the shore like a shadow. He slept and ate when coerced and listened if Frodo spoke to him, but the forge-fire had been extinguished within him. He seemed neither sorrowful nor angry, and he did not weep; indifference had consumed him. Often he did not speak a single solitary word from sunrise to sunset and at night sat motionless by the hearth like a stone statue.

Gandalf came by frequently to see how they fared, bringing covered platters of elvish delicacies to tempt Frodo's appetite and news from the city to entertain him. He pestered Thorin, several times attempting to provoke an argument, but his needling was no more effective than Frodo's kindness, for the dwarf simply left the room.

"Look at yourself, son of Thráin," Gandalf said on one such occasion, so sharply that Frodo nearly dropped the soup tureen he'd been carrying to the table. "What would Bilbo think of you, a useless lump moping about the house, your braids half-undone and your beard unoiled, looking like a common vagabond?"

Thorin's eyes flamed. His hands clenched into fists at his side, and his jaw worked. It was more emotion than Frodo had seen from him for weeks, but then he turned away and stomped out the door.

Gandalf sighed.

"That was cruel," Frodo said angrily.

"It is worse than I thought," Gandalf murmured. He rubbed at his temples, frowning, and then took up his staff. "I think I shan't stay for tea after all."

"If you mean to go after Thorin I wouldn't advise it. He can be very stubborn."

A small measure of the grim worry in Gandalf's face eased as he chuckled. "I think I know that well enough by now." He bent and gave Frodo's cheek a gentle nudge. "I am sorry that you should have to bear this all on your own."

Frodo drew back, taking up his dish to put it back on the hearth. "I can manage."

"My dear boy, I know you can." Taking his white cloak from its peg, Gandalf threw it over his shoulders and pulled his hat low on his forehead. "I will come tomorrow, unless I am called away." He opened the door. "If you should, perchance, in a few minutes happen to hear any alarming sounds from the proximity of the woods I would not trouble yourself unduly about them."

"Wh--- Gandalf!"

By the time Frodo hastened to the threshold, the wizard had already vanished. The yard and the garden were empty, and Thorin and Gandalf were nowhere in sight. For a moment Frodo was miffed at being left without a word. Blight and bother, he was done with the both of them! He needed a warm bed and a nap, and maybe a bit of luncheon. As he turned to go back inside, his eye was caught by something gleaming dully in the grass by the edge of the gate.

It was Thorin's harp, the beautiful wooden bow cracked cleanly down the middle and the strings frayed on their ends, like they'd been ripped from their moorings in a heedless rage. With great care, Frodo gathered all the pieces together and bore them back to the cottage. He folded them in a soft tea-towel and took the bundle into Bilbo’s library.

For a moment, Frodo simply stood in the little room, with its shelves of well-worn books and stacks of uncut paper, empty glass ink-pots lining one of the window sills. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of binding-leather and ink and the faintest whiff of brewed tea. Sighing, he went to the large ash box in the corner, where Bilbo had kept his bits and bobs, trifles that meant something only to him -- fragments of broken pottery, bird feathers, an unusual stone, polished seashells from the shore. Taken by whimsy, Frodo spent a minute or two sorting through the cache. Inside a tin filled with mismatched buttons, he found Thorin’s hewn braid, wrapped in a handkerchief of fine blue silk. Very gently he resettled the tin and cleared a space at the chest’s centre for the broken harp.

Thorin returned later that evening in a contemplative mood, his left eye blackened. As they ate their supper quietly at the table, Frodo saw him unsuccessfully attempting to conceal skinned and bloodied knuckles under the hem of his sleeve. Frodo bit his lip and said nothing. The next morning, when Thorin went out into the yard to his customary perch, his hair was neatly brushed and braided.

Gandalf did not return the next day, nor the next, but on the third morning he arrived at the cottage and brought with him Lady Galadriel. They arrived just after second breakfast, while Frodo was tidying up the dishes and Thorin was fiddling with the window sill in the parlour that had been damaged by a torrential rain.

Pushing through the door without so much as a knock, Gandalf shook the water from his hat and set his staff against the wall. “Beastly weather,” he groused. “I don’t suppose you still have the kettle on?”

Frodo tensed a bit as he came inside, remembering Thorin’s split knuckles, but the dwarf nodded to Gandalf with no apparent grudge and the wizard merely looked amused. Whether or not that was the end of the exchange, Frodo was never to know, for his attention was quickly diverted. Galadriel, after hanging her blue travelling cloak by the fire, came at once to Frodo. She caught his face delicately in her hands and turned his head this way and that, observing him with her piercing, all-seeing eyes. Seeming satisfied, she released his chin. "How do you fare, little one?"

“Mostly well,” he said truthfully, for there was no point in attempting to deceive her. “Will you take some tea? We just finished eating, but there’s leftover bread and cold meat, and there might be a boiled egg or two."

Her pale hand on his arm silenced him more effectively than a shout. “Thank you, but I require nothing. Come and sit with me.”

He sat. Gandalf poured himself a steaming cup from the kettle but did not drink. If he had seemed like himself earlier -- though perhaps a little tired -- his good humour had fled from him. He looked very serious indeed.

Frodo swallowed past a sudden dryness in his mouth. “What brings you out in the rain?”

"News." Galadriel glanced over at Thorin, who was resolutely nailing a new panel into the window sill and giving every appearance of not paying her a smidgen of attention. "For both of you. The past three nights I dreamt of you, Frodo, and of Bilbo, and I felt a great need to walk in the Gardens. I went this very morning and tread the path of dreams in solitude. Lórien granted me a vision."

The sound of the hammer stopped.

"I walked in a beautiful garden, green and good, stretching the length of the world," she said, her voice slipping into something dreamy and faraway. "I walked in a land rich with plenty, peaceful beyond measure and blooming with a hundred thousand flowers. I saw you, Frodo, treading the path before me with your brave Samwise fast at your side." She pressed his hand, and Frodo managed an uncertain smile for her.  "I saw you happy and free, among those whom you love, with a face like sunbeams. But as I walked, I felt an absence. Bilbo did not dwell in those beautiful gardens.”

A hundred horrors sprang to Frodo's mind. Had they done something wrong, somehow barred Bilbo from passing into Yavanna's Pastures by giving him the river’s water? Had they been mistaken, and the shades of the Ring had not been truly lifted?

"Calm your thoughts,” Galadriel said. “Listen. Believing I must be mistaken, I sought him beyond the bounds of that sacred land. I passed through walls of polished stone, lit with the fires of a thousand forges, set with precious gems and tiles of gold."

From where he knelt by the window, Thorin let out a choked cry. "It cannot be."

Galadriel seemed not to hear him. “I passed through carven halls to a chamber that I recalled from an Age long past, its arches flaming with jewels and ancient runes. Do you wish to know what I saw there, Durin’s son? I saw the great silver throne of the lost Erebor, and on it a hobbit with a mithril crown on his brow. I saw the consort of the king, wearing your braid in his hair."

Thorin bowed his head, and his shoulders shook.

Frodo half-rose from his seat in alarm. He looked to Galadriel, his bewilderment tempered by a growing, panicked suspicion. "Erebor?”

She was silent. It was Thorin who spoke. "The forges, the carven walls of tiled gold -- they are the Halls of my fathers."

Frodo struggled for words. "He is in Aulë's Halls." There was no disagreement. _"How?"_

"By some power beyond us all," Galadriel said. "How it was done I cannot say. I was not granted that knowledge. In my dream I saw well enough its consequences. Bilbo made the choice of Lúthien -- the choice of my Arwen -- and to Yavanna’s green gardens he shall not return."

"Oh," he murmured. He felt Gandalf's hand on his shoulder, a solemn weight. "Oh."

He lifted his eyes to Galadriel’s. Her beautiful face was sorrowful, soft, and the smile on her lips spoke of understanding and the tenderest pity.

_I will never see him again, will I?_

_No, dear one_.

Gandalf eased onto the bench with care, drawing Frodo down with him. Frodo hid his face in his friend's robes and wept.

 

****

 

WHEN GALADRIEL AND GANDALF had departed, Frodo went immediately to Bilbo’s study, rifling through the papers like a creature possessed. There must be some sign, some note, some word of instruction that Bilbo had left. For all his eccentricities and whims, Bilbo never did anything without a meticulous, painstaking plan -- surely he would not have made such a choice without recording some hint of it somewhere.

He read long into the afternoon, making quite a mess of his neatly-sorted stacks, but he found nothing worth noticing in the half-finished poems and household reminders and market-day lists. A noise from the door startled him from his reading. Thorin hovered uncertainly in the threshold, a porcelain teacup and a bowl of gingerbread in his hands.

“You missed dinner,” he said, offering Frodo the cup.

Frodo looked down at the syrupy red liquid and gave it a lackluster sniff. “This is fire-wine.”

“I thought you might welcome something stronger.”

Downing the entire cup in one swallow did not necessarily make him feel better -- the peppery burn in his throat teetered too far on the edge of painful -- but the warmth that spread in his belly a moment later soothed him. He set the empty glass aside.

Thorin was watching him with a clarity and awareness in his eyes that Frodo had not seen in weeks. "I am sorry," he said lowly.

Frodo put away the account book he had been reading and reached for a thick slice of gingerbread. It was heavily spiced and a trifle too sweet. “The night he died, when you were away in the kitchen, Bilbo apologized to me,” he said. “I didn’t know what he was on about then, but he asked me to forgive him for being selfish. He must have already had something planned. He truly didn’t tell you anything?”

Thorin came to sit on the chair in front of the window. “I swear to you, he didn’t breathe a word of any plan to me.”

“Maybe he didn’t wish to shore up your hopes in case it couldn’t be done.”

“Maybe.” He leaned forward on his elbows, and lowered his head, rubbing brusquely at his temples. “I confess I am at a loss.”

“Hmm?”

“I am still banished,” Thorin said quietly. “I cannot go back. What a sorry ending for our tale, if he lives forever in the dwarf halls and I in Valinor.”

“No. No, Bilbo always has a trick. He must have some notion of how to bring you to the Halls as well.”

“I have the utmost faith in his abilities,” Thorin said then, after a pause. “I have seen him face troll and dragon and orc alike, and triumph over them all. But I think this beyond even his wit. I offered Mahal mortal insult in choosing to abandon the Halls. I willfully abandoned my kin and my history, the sacred holding of my ancestors. Mahal allowed me to make my choice, and I made it. I have turned it over and over in my head, but I fear there is no way to evade its consequences.”

“You mustn't give up hope.”

“Do not concern yourself with me. I will go on, as I ever have.” He drew one hand over the desk, putting a few stray papers to order, his eye lingering on the elegant script. “I ask your pardon for my behaviour these past weeks. I laid too many burdens upon you in my grief.”

“It’s already forgotten.”

“So hasty to forgive.”

Frodo reached for another slice of gingerbread, now aware of how tired he was, and what a crick he’d developed from sitting hunched at the desk for so long. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.”

Thorin huffed out a chuckle. “As you say. Manwë bid me remember that Mahal loves his children. Perhaps Bilbo and I shall be permitted to meet again when the world has been remade.”

“Well, I won’t give up hope.” Frodo brushed his palms against his trousers, uncaring of the crumbs that fell, and opened another account book. He glanced up at Thorin, and what he saw in the dwarf’s face gave him pause. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

Thorin looked genuinely taken aback.

“I don't believe that a dwarf who left his home on just the hope of reclaiming Erebor -- a dwarf who left his Maker’s keep on the hope of saving an old friend -- would be content to sit and wait for forgiveness.”

“Sensible. I should have expected nothing less from a Baggins. I do mean to leave if I can. I have no idea what supplications I can offer to Mahal, but I intend to try.”

“Will you go right away?”

Thorin’s look was kind, and Frodo thought he hadn’t spoken as calmly as he hoped. “Not yet. Soon, but not yet.” He hesitated. “I feel as if I have stolen him from you, somehow.”

“Bilbo belongs to himself.”

For a moment, Thorin was silent. “I have a promise for you: even if I should be turned away from the Halls, I know he will be loved and attended there. My kin will see to it that he is embraced as family. I give you my oath on that.”

“I never feared him being abandoned, not for an instant.”

“I dislike the thought of you going on to your Pastures alone. If one hobbit was able to enter the Halls, perhaps another might as well.”

“No,” Frodo said firmly. “Thank you, but no. Bilbo may find happiness there, but it is not meant for me. And you needn’t feel guilty. You should go home. I can see that you miss it.”

Thorin inclined his head gravely. “It is beautiful, this land.” A small, wry smile flickered around his mouth. “But it is not meant for me.” He rose and took up the empty bowl and teacup, and made as though to leave Frodo to his thoughts. When he reached the door, however, Frodo called him back.

“Thorin? Promise me one more thing.”

“You need only name it.”

“Promise me that you won’t leave without saying goodbye. A proper goodbye, not just a note.”

Thorin’s face, so harsh and forbidding in lamplight, softened. “You have my word.”

 

********************

 

“I HAD WONDERED WHEN you would visit again.”

Frodo smiled, stepping out onto the warm brick of the terrace, and sniffed appreciatively -- a delightful luncheon spread was arranged on a low table. “I think you knew.”

Elrond’s elegant brows rose, but he poured a glass of brown ale and held it out for Frodo. “Or perhaps I simply wished to dine out-of-doors today.”

“And dine on my favourite meat pie?”

“I had a taste for coney.”

“You detest coney. Arwen told me, and hobbits never forget about food. We’d offend all our neighbours at tea if we did.” Frodo accepted the glass and a plate already laden with a generous slice. “Thank you.”

Elrond dipped his head with a half-smile. He collected thin wedges of cheese and candied fruit for himself, and they talked as they ate. The pie was delectable, as always, and Frodo took his time savouring the rich gravy and hot crust, buttery and perfectly crisp.

“Your appetite has returned,” Elrond said, sounding pleased. Frodo merely nodded and accepted another generous slice. Only the food was mostly gone and they had begun an idle game of chess did Elrond carefully say, “I was sorry to hear the news.”

“Lady Galadriel told you about Bilbo.”

“She did. It must have been a tremendous shock.”

“It was and it wasn’t. I ought to have known that he would find some way around it. We Bagginses can be very stubborn.”

Elrond looked fond. “Yes, I know. Your uncle especially. That iron will was all the more startling for being embedded in such a demure form.”

Frodo covered a laugh with his napkin. “Bilbo? Demure? I think we’re speaking of different hobbits.”

“You did not know him in those days. He was so painfully polite, the first time I met him, and so distressed that his companions were not. His hunger for adventure was so great as to overcome his propriety eventually, but I can assure you it was a very fierce battle between Baggins and Took.” He took a long sip of ale. “Does Thorin intend to return to the Halls to plead his case with Aulë?”

“He says he does.”

“Does it distress you, his going away?”

“I suppose not, though I’ve grown fond of him in the last two years. I’m feeling very philosophical about it.” Frodo gave him a small smile. “There is nothing that can resolve the situation to everyone’s satisfaction, and I believe I’ve made my peace with that. It was an impossible choice. How could I be angry at Bilbo?” He shuffled the pieces in his hand and then made his move, capturing one of Elrond’s rooks. “I sailed here, and my friends forgave me. Their love was not enough to keep me in Middle-earth, but it does not mean that what we felt wasn’t honest and true. I love them as I ever did, and I would like to think that it’s the same for them. If an afterlife of dwarves makes Bilbo happy, then I can forgive him and wish him well.”

“You are a very wise hobbit.”

Frodo shifted his tokens uncomfortably. “Well, Bilbo never was made for the Shire, you know. He often said so himself. I suppose it's fitting that he does not go to the Pastures.” The thought of what their relatives would say when they learned what Bilbo had done was enough to have him chuckling to himself. It was fitting too, that his uncle should thumb his nose at their stuffy relations even in death. “Perhaps I’ve realized that love is not always enough.”

Elrond looked momentarily pained. “I believe that I much preferred your way of looking at it.”

Frodo only smiled.

“Here, let us talk of pleasanter things. I have a proposition for you, Frodo, and though I do not pretend that it any great solace, I offer it all the same. Bilbo approached me many months ago and asked me if I would see to you once he was gone. It would be my honour if you would consent to join my household and live here in Valmar.”

“I -- that’s very kind of you.” There was a polite refusal on his tongue, but Elrond grasped his shoulder and gave it a fatherly press.

“Come and stay with us in the city, _mellon nín._ I would have offered had Bilbo never broached the subject. Your friends would see you happy and among those who care for you until it is time for you to join your kin in the Pastures.”

“Then I will come gladly,” Frodo said, and he was treated to a rare smile from the elven lord.

“I told you he would come.” The sudden timbre of Gandalf’s voice surprised them both, though Elrond was too poised to jump in his seat. “You were fretting over nothing, my friend.”

“Only because you would push him into it whether he liked it or not.”

“One does as one must,” Gandalf said agreeably. “Lindir is searching for you. The poor fellow looks frantic, or as frantic as he ever does, which is not very much.”

“If I should go only to find that Lindir is not looking for me and you sent me away so that you could finish my plate, I shall be very cross with you.” The elf rose and gave Frodo’s shoulder another warm clasp. “Let me know when you wish to come, and I will arrange for your furnishings to be moved.”

Frodo thanked him earnestly, and he departed. As soon as his footsteps faded in the hall, Gandalf took up his plate and bit into a wedge of cheese with particular relish. Frodo groaned out a laugh and offered him a cup of ale. “You’re incorrigible.”

“It is too late now, my boy. You have already agreed and now you shall never be rid of us.”

“That suits me fine.” Pleasantly stuffed and assured of the welcome of his friends, Frodo wandered over to the balcony, leaning on its rail to gaze out at the gardens. “Do you think Thorin will be able to get into the Halls?”

“I think he is determined to, which is about the same thing by my measure. I would not worry for him, Frodo. Dwarves are a staunch sort, and he is stauncher than most.” Gandalf poured himself an ale. “And you? Do I need to worry for you?”

Frodo took a moment to consider it honestly. “Not anymore. I can wait, and I won’t be alone when it’s my time. I’ll have Sam and Merry and Pip and Mum and Pa . . . “ He trailed off when the wizard began to chuckle. “Gandalf?”

“How cross Bungo will be when he finds out what his son has done! He always was convinced that Bilbo’s Tookishness would get the better of him. You will assure him the dwarves are a good sort, Frodo? Belladonna will understand, and she’ll talk him ‘round eventually, but it would not hurt to put in a kind word for them.” Gandalf shook his head, still chortling, and put down Elrond’s plate in order to bring out his pipe. “I have been thinking, my lad -- if we grow bored with our lives of leisure, we might do a little travelling. There is more of Aman to see.”

“I thought we were done with adventures.”

“The day one ceases to have adventures is the day one ceases to be.” He tamped down his pipe and lit it. “Hmm, I’m rather proud of that one. Quite profound.”

Frodo laughed, looking up toward the sky. “I think I should like to see Manwë’s mountain again. And perhaps we might meet Ulmo someday and hear his songs. Ori spoke of them so highly.”

Gandalf came to stand beside Frodo at the edge of the terrace and blew a silver smoke-ring over the railing. They watched it drift lazily across the garden and float up and up and up until it vanished into the clouds.

“We shall fumble along quite merrily,” Gandalf murmured.

“Yes,” Frodo said. He felt the sun’s light on his face, the sweet wind in his hair, and Valinor stretched beyond the reach of his sight, beautiful and ageless as a dream. “As we always have.”

 

* * *

* * *

 

_THORIN_

* * *

 

 

AS THE DAYS PASSED, Thorin’s resolution to leave strengthened. The overwhelming fog of his grief had dissipated, and with a clear mind he began to prepare himself for his journey. Whether he succeeded or not, he would go and plead his case. His own dignity was of no consequence. For the first time in months he felt hope -- if his own hardened heart could be touched by pity, surely too could his Maker’s -- and that was worth any injury to his pride.

He longed to be among his kin again, to feel the heat of the forges and the cool shelter of stone. He missed his mother and father, his sister and his brother. He missed Balin and his sister-sons and Dáin. He missed his grandfather. He missed them with an ache that seemed so rooted in his heart that every week without them lodged the spines deeper.

Desperately he missed Bilbo. Their two years together had spoiled him for being alone; the hobbit’s absence had not been nearly so painful in the decades they had spent parted by death, for Thorin’s love then had been an unfulfilled longing with no hope of return. He had grown used to Bilbo’s smiles and clever words, the rare but thrilling flare of his temper, the warmth of his body close by at night. Knowing now that his affections were returned and knowing what it was to dwell together in happiness, having Bilbo beyond his reach was unbearable.

Yet he could not simply leave. He had duties and responsibilities here that must be attended to before he went; he could not think of only himself. With his eyes open once more, he felt shame for having obliged young Frodo to bear so much. His tools in hand, he went through every inch of the cottage, fixing and mending, replacing old boards and rusted nails, polishing and cleaning. He spent long hours at the table with his carving knife, listening attentively as Frodo cooked and chattered -- the lad hardly needed conversation so much as he needed someone to hear him, the comfort of another soul nearby.

It came as a great relief to learn that Frodo would join Elrond’s household when Thorin was gone; the thought of the softhearted lad living all alone by the Sea had niggled fearfully at Thorin’s conscience. What regard would he have shown Bilbo in abandoning his grieving kin? In any matter, Frodo seemed excited at the prospect and spoke eagerly of the city and his friends. Thorin’s respect for Elrond grew, and he felt not a twinge of discomfort in acknowledging it.

Thorin planned and plotted, recovering his knapsack from the closet and gradually filling it with what few effects he had, leaving it in easy reach by the foot of his bed. Everything he had made or collected since arriving in Valmar he would leave to Frodo. Frodo too was gathering his things together, packing Bilbo’s papers away and clearing out the larder; his elf-friends often came over to help sort and box up the many books. On the last such occasion, when the day’s work had been done, Tauriel approached Thorin with a request.

“Before you go, Thorin Oakenshield, I would beg a favour of you,” the elf said, firm and resolute. “Please, bear this message to Kíli.” She held out a letter sealed with red wax.

He took it, giving her a piercing look. “I could throw it into the river.”

“You could,” she agreed. “But you will not.”

“No.” He tucked the packet safely inside his coat. “I would not.”

She bowed her head to him, albeit a little mockingly, but there was real grief in the shadows of her eyes. Thorin felt a moment’s pity for her, and he was moved to say, “I will bear my sister-son’s greetings back to you, Mistress Tauriel, if we should ever meet again.”

A thin smile curled her lips. “We certainly shall,” she said, and without another word she turned round and left.

The days were busy and filled with many things, the nights still and tense with anticipation. The time of their departures was nearing, and soon Thorin was left with just one final task. He travelled the road to Valmar, seeking out the workshop of the master blacksmith. The elf proved amenable to the use of one of his smaller forges in exchange for a dwarvish-made axe. Over the course of three days, Thorin subsumed himself in steam and fire, the pleasing, familiar labour of strength against iron and steel. He made the axe-head with the expert ease of long practice and took his time with his own project. On the last day, he left the forge with two rectangular silver-iron beads in his pocket, wrought with the crown of Durin's sigil.

 

***

 

Thorin awoke one morning with a quiet knowledge in his heart. He rose and bathed his face, dressed in his best tunic, and spent an hour carefully brushing and braiding his hair, giving every bead he had a place of prominence. He re-wove Fârfil’s knot above his ear and bound back the fall of his hair so that its wooden sunflower bead might be visible to all.

He tidied the bedchamber and took up his satchel. Frodo he found in the kitchen, reading at the table. The lad glanced up, a ‘good morning’, no doubt, on his lips, and stilled.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes.” Thorin placed his knapsack on the table and went to fetch his boots from the alcove. Dragonsbane stood propped next to his cloak, hardly touched in months, and he strapped it across his back, feeling the rightness of the sword’s weight once more.

Frodo had abandoned his book and now lingered at the threshold of the foyer, wringing his hands a little. “Will you take breakfast? I can make eggs and sausage, or honey porridge.”

Thorin declined and sat to lace his boots. Another hour spent here was one less on the road. He could not afford to wait. Frodo, not to be deterred, wrapped a round of cheese, a half-loaf of brown bread, and an apple into a rag and put the bundle in Thorin’s knapsack. “For later,” he said stoutly, and he went away to his room with a promise to soon return. When he did, he bore in his hands Thorin’s harp.

"I asked Tauriel to help me fix it,” he said, “and she gave me the name of a master carpenter in the city."

Thorin accepted it, shamed to remember how he had smashed it in his grief, and ran his hands over the smooth woodgrain. There was hardly a noticeable seam or bump, it was so expertly mended. “A kindly gift,” he said, stricken with resigned sorrow. He would miss this steadfast little lad, who had the spirit of his uncle and a goodness all his own. “I will play it proudly and remember you.” He bore it over to his pack and wrapped it in his fur mantle before tucking it inside.

"I have a gift for you as well," he said, and from his pocket he brought out one of the beads he had crafted at the elvish forge. He placed it in Frodo's palm, the silver bright against his skin. "It bears the mark of Durin. Any dwarf who sees it will know what you are to me and my kin."

Frodo's eyes were wide as he closed his small fingers around the bead. “Thank you.”

Thorin nodded and slung his satchel over his shoulder. Frodo stuffed the bead in his pocket and held out both of his hands -- Thorin took them, and with great solemnity he bent to touch their foreheads together. “ _Mahal tadnani astû, sanzigil tamkhihi astû_. Mahal guide you and mithril find you. Farewell, my nephew.”

When Frodo drew back, his eyes were damp, but he smiled. “Farewell, Uncle.”

Thorin left the cottage by the Sea, where he had known happiness, and paused only once at the gate to look back. Frodo stood in the threshold, watching him go, his little face solemn. Thorin raised his hand, and Frodo waved, and they parted forever.

The road stretched long before him, but Thorin walked at a steady pace. He passed over the sandy dunes and into the forest, past the lake and the city walls. He crossed golden fields and flowering grasses, his footsteps stirring birds from their hedges. He followed the river on its green banks and turned his face to the West.

Undisturbed by elf or beast, he walked until the sun fell and then made camp in the shelter of the trees. He built no fire. He ate bread and cheese and slept wrapped in his cloak. In the early hours before dawn, he rose to continue on by moonlight. The land he passed was unfamiliar, but he was not afraid of losing his way. He kept close to the river and left an offering or two for the Lady of Mercy to guarantee his safe passage. As he travelled, he sang to himself, choosing walking songs that spoke fondly of home. When he ran out of verses, he composed several new melodies for his harp, and determinedly did not think of what he would say when he arrived at the Keep. He would speak from his heart, and he could only hope that it would be enough.

For five days and nights Thorin walked, stopping only to eat and take a few hours’ rest. In all his life, he had never travelled by himself -- it was strange and lonely, hearing no voice but his own. As a boy the royal guard had been his constant companions and he could not set foot from the mountain without a full retinue on his grandfather’s orders. After Erebor’s fall, he had journeyed with Frerin and Dís or Balin, and Dwalin, ever-vigilant friend and kingsguard, had been his constant shadow. Even in death, he had not journeyed to the afterlife alone.

Without Kíli’s mischief and Ulmo’s winds to blow him off course, Thorin reached the Outer Sea on the sixth afternoon, the wind as warm and the sand as white and desolate as he remembered. He bathed in the waves and made a fire on the shore, sitting by its light to brush the dried salt from his hair and beard. He stayed long enough to re-braid his hair and play a simple melody on his harp -- the water didn’t stir, but Thorin was quite sure he heard a fluting whistle on the wind in reply.

By dawn Thorin had passed into the valley, but as he crested the great hill, it was to find his path blocked.

His beard as red as fire in the sunlight, Lord Mahal stood before him with Bekhaz, Hammer of the Dwarrows, hefted on his shoulder. On his arm was the Green Lady, her vine-braids blooming with bright turquoise flowers.

“A good morning to you,” Lady Yavanna said.

Thorin’s pulse leapt, and for a moment, he feared it was a fever-dream brought on by too many sleepless nights. He hastily shuffled back, dropping to one knee. His heart pounded. He felt the cool press of a hand under his jaw, and he lifted his head.

Yavanna’s river-water eyes pinned his own as they had that day in Durin’s Keep. This time, however, she seemed pleased with what she found, for she drew back with a smile. “I will tell Sister Nienna that she need not weep for you anymore.”

Thorin closed his eyes. “Please, my lady -- the hobbit?”

“He dwells in Durin’s Keep,” Yavanna said.

Lifting his hand to his mouth, Thorin bowed his head again. “I thank you, Father, with all my soul, for allowing him passage into your Halls.”

Mahal huffed. “I did not let the impertinent little lad in! He _stole_ his way inside, and I have not the heart to cast him out again.”

“His reputation as an expert burglar has proven unexaggerated,” the Lady said. As he caught her gaze, he saw a hint of satisfaction and secret mischief in the flicker of her eyes. Thorin felt a half-wild urge to laugh but mercifully was able to contain himself.

“What have you to say for yourself, son of Thráin?” Mahal said then, impatiently. “Your banishment must have incurred some regret in you, if you came here.”

“I miss the Halls. I miss my kin. Yet I cannot regret those years spent with him.”

Mahal did not seem angry. He sighed, and he looked then to Yavanna with a frown beneath his moustache. “I concede that you were right.”

Yavanna dipped her head graciously.

“It seems that my lady wife knows my children as well as I -- or better. Perhaps we are too much alike, Thorin Oakenshield. Perhaps I hewed you too closely to my own soul.”

Thorin took a steadying breath. “I am sorry to have brought you any grief or insult with my leaving. I did not leave because I was dissatisfied with my home, or for any reason but my wish to see Bilbo well again.”

“Do you think me made of stone? I know what it is to love.” He gazed at Thorin with hard eyes. “Do you wish to return?”

“I do.”

There was a moment of tense silence before Mahal heaved another great sigh. “My temper may have led me to make you choose. But I am capable of being merciful. I take no pleasure in being cruel.”

Yavanna laughed, the sound as sweet as cool rainwater. She plucked a flower from her braid and tucked it into Mahal’s flaming hair. She said to Thorin, “Your kin troubled my lord husband day in and day out with offerings and supplications for your return.”

Colour rose in Mahal’s face until his cheeks were as ruby-red as his beard, but he looked resigned. “My folk are unbreakable as diamond and stubborn as ancient granite. I made them that way. And your brother is the most hard-headed and persistent of them all; I had not a moment’s peace from his witless nattering.”

Dear Frerin! Thorin did not know whether he wanted to kiss or throttle his brother when they met again.

Mahal sobered then. “I would have an oath from you now. Will you return willingly to the Halls of your fathers, and dwell there in contentment until all should end?”

With no hesitation, Thorin laid his fingers in the massive, gauntleted palm of his Maker. “I will, if you grant me the honour.”

“So be it. It pained me like an open wound to have one of my own missing from my Halls.” Mahal clasped his hand in both of his own with a gentleness that restrained tremendous might, a dam before a rushing river. “Be welcome, son of Thráin, and come home.”

In a blink the great marble door of Mahal’s keep was before them. Thorin greedily drank in the sight of the runes and sweeping arches, his heart leaping with a delight that was uncontainable. Oh, to be home! To be among dwarrows once more, to see his kin and hold them close!

And Bilbo -- Bilbo was somewhere beyond those doors.

Mahal hefted high Bekhaz. The door unsealed, the stone swinging forward without so much as a groan. Yavanna took her husband’s arm, and together they walked inside, though she paused to look round at Thorin. “Come,” she said warmly, and Thorin ran up the low staircase.

No sooner had he reached the threshold than he was driven back by two bodies slamming into his chest. For a moment the world was a tangle of braids and beards and excited shouts, and Thorin clutched his sister-sons with disbelieving joy.

“Fíli! Kíli!” he cried, clasping their dear faces one by one. Scarcely had they pulled back before his arms were full of Frerin, and then Dís. His father wept loudly on his shoulder and patted his cheeks as though he weren’t entirely certain Thorin was real.

His mother grabbed his chin and pressed a teary kiss to his forehead. “Never again,” she said firmly. “Do you hear me, Thorin?”

“Never,” he promised.

“Brother,” Frerin said, tugging Thorin away by the hand. He pulled him toward the threshold, through the throng of dwarrows, and gave him a nudge. “Look over there.”

Thorin looked, and felt his breath catch in his throat. Standing between Balin and Dáin was Bilbo. He looked just as he had the day they met in Bag End, plump and healthy and strong, his face unlined, curls thick and shining red-gold once more. He wore his breeches and vest with a dwarvish coat, and one of Freís’s moonstone rings. On his brow glittered the oak leaf and lily-of-the-valley circlet. Their eyes met, and Bilbo beamed.

Thorin went to him at once, catching him up and kissing him fiercely. Over the quick pulse of his heart, he faintly heard the sound of Fíli and Kíli chortling and then yelping in the distance -- no doubt Dís had pulled them away by their hair -- and he felt Bilbo grin against his cheek.

“You are here,” he breathed.

“Well spotted.” Bilbo bussed his cheek, half-laughing, and then stretched up onto his toes to rest his head against Thorin’s shoulder.

Thorin threaded his fingers into soft curls and stroked smooth, young skin, unable to stop touching for fear that Bilbo might melt away, a figment of a dream. “You impossible creature.”

“You’ll never be rid of me now, I’m afraid.” His tone was flippant, but his hands clutched Thorin’s back with a desperation he couldn’t quite conceal, and Thorin held him closer.

“Good.”

They stood for a moment in perfect contentment, uncaring of the noise and bustle around them, but at length Bilbo turned his cheek against Thorin’s throat and slowly loosed his arms from Thorin’s shoulders.

“Your grandfather’s arranged a banquet in the Keep to welcome you home,” he murmured.

Thorin let him draw away, ghosting his fingers reverently over the crown he had forged in the depths of his loneliness, and he thought of the bead in his coat-pocket, waiting to be braided into Bilbo’s bright hair. “I’ve no need for food.”

Bilbo’s warm, merry laugh seemed to settle around him. “Well, _I_ do.”

“Far be it from me to keep a hobbit from a feast.” Thorin kissed his smiling mouth once more, and hand-in-hand they crossed into the halls of his Maker.

* * *

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] - All credit for the bits of Khuzdul goes to the lovely Neo-Khuzdul dictionary, courtesy of The Dwarrow Scholar.  
> [2] - I can’t begin to thank all of you guys for the amount of encouragement and support I’ve gotten -- I honestly cannot believe the response this fic has received. So thank you! Each and every one of your comments and kudos made me smile.  
> [3] - There will be a one-shot sequel (and yes, it will be E-rated) that should show up in a week or two from Bilbo’s POV so we can find out exactly how he burgled his way into the Halls of Aulë and cover a bit of the fallout from Thorin’s homecoming. I’m not even going to pretend that it’s anything but gratuitous fluff and nonsense.  
> 


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